THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


. 


•• 


BY    THE    SEA. 


BY    THE    SEA 


MRS.   SOPHRONIA  CURRIER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "ALICE  TRACT." 


NEW   YORK: 
E.   P.   DUTTON   AND   COMPANY, 

713  BROADWAY. 

1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  oy 

E.  P.  DOTTON  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUOHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.     THE  SANDS 7 

II.     THE  VISION 15 

III.  HOLT  THURSDAY 23 

IV.  THE  LIGHTHOUSE   KEEPEB 31 

V.     THE  BROTHERS 42 

VL     BRENDICE 55 

VLL.     Revanche 70 

VIII.     ON  THE  GUFF 81 

IX.     THE  MIDNIGHT  VISITOR 104 

X.     AT  THE  HOCKS 116 

XL     AT  LAST 128 

XII.     THE  FAITHFUL  DEPARTED 143 

XIII.  BACK  TO  THE  OLD  HOME 161 

XIV.  ALL-SAINTS'  DAT 185 

XV.     CHRISTMAS  EVE 197 

XVI.     BURIED  TALENTS 208 

XVII.     THE  CONVOT  LIGHT 221 

XVIII.     BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS 233 

XIX.     MEASURE  TOR  MEASURE 250 

XX.     GLORIA  Tim,  DOMINIE 265 

XXI.     THE  EASTER-OFFERING 280 

XXII.     UNDER  THE  EVERGREENS * 303 

XXIII.  EASTER-FLOWERS 321 

XXIV.  OUT  OF  THE  SEA 334 

XXV.  AFTER  Two  YEARS  . .                                                                .357 


1692522 


BY    THE    SEA. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE  SANDS. 

|  HE  name  of  "  The  Sands  "  was  given  to  a  \vide 
stretch  of  low  beach  of  white  sand,  that  was 
terminated  on  the  south  by  a  broad,  shallow 
inlet,  into  which  a  noisy  stream,  leaping  down  from  the 
neighboring  hills,  poured  its  clear,  sparkling  waters. 

On  the  north,  looking  from  the  high,  bold  cliff  which 
rose,  on  three  sides,  well  nigh  perpendicularly  from  out  the 
almost  mountainous  ridge  of  boulders  which  the  ocean  had 
piled  up  to  mark  the  limit  of  its  domain,  the  eye  of  the 
careless  observer  saw  little  but  the  horizon. 

The  deep  blue  line  was,  however,  broken  at  night  by  the 
red  glare  of  a  beacon  light  ;  and,  very  infrequently,  when 
the  sun's  earliest  beams  shot  out  widely  over  the  sea,  it  was 
fancied  that  the  tall  windows  in  the  tower  of  St.  Mary's,  the 
sweet,  silvery  tones  of  whose  bell  sometimes  fell  on  the 
listening  ear,  could  be  seen  shining  as  the  lamps  burned  low. 
One  thought,  who  often  turned  her  sad,  wistful  eyes  towards 

the  north,  that  the  light  from  the  church  tower  was  a  no  less 

(7) 


8  By  the  Sea. 

needed  ray,  calling  to  goodness  all  the  day  long,  as 
through  the  hours  of  the  night  the  beacon  had  warned 
against  ill. 

Away  to  the  east,  just  within  the  limit  of  vision,  was  a 
group  of  small,  rocky  islands,  two  or  three  of  which  were 
inhabited  by  a  few  fishermen  and  their  families. 

The  men  were  a  set  of  rough,  wild  fellows,  and  some  of 
them,  it  was  said,  had  not  always  been  engaged  in  their 
present  peaceful  and  lawful  employment.  The  women  and 
children,  who  never  went  to  the  mainland,  and  who  seldom 
had  any  intercourse  whatever  with  any  one  outside  their  little 
world,  were  regarded  by  the  few  strangers  who  occasionally 
went  down  from  the  neighboring  city  to  have  a  picnic  or  a 
clam-bake  on  the  rocks  of  one  of  the  uninhabited  islands,  as 
little  less  than  savages. 

On  the  smallest  of  these  islands,  and  the  one  farthest  out 
toward  the  ocean,  which,  from  its  position  and  the  purpose 
for  which  it  was  employed,  the  fishermen  had  named  the 
"  Convoy,"  was  another  light-house. 

The  keeper  of  the  light  at  the  period  when  this  narrative 
commences,  was  a  man  of  fifty  years  or  more.  The  last 
fifteen  years  of  his  life,  it  was  generally  said,  had  been 
passed  entirely  on  the  island.  A  man  named  Greyson,  who 
was  of  rather  inferior  intellect,  but  strong  and  active,  and 
much  more  at  home  on  the  water  than  on  the  land,  though 
he  had  a  pleasant  little  cottage  near  the  sea-shore,  at  no 
great  distance  from  "  The  Sands,"  supplied  him  with  the  few 
necessaries  he  required  in  his  hermit-like  existence. 

"With  the  inhabitants  of  the  adjacent  islands,  the  Commo 
dore,  as  he  was  called,  though  he  was  so  far  from  being  en- 


The  Sands.  9 

titled  to  the  name  that  it  was  not  certain  that  he  had  over 
been  a  seafaring  man,  had  no  intercourse  whatever. 

The  fishermen  manifested  no  greater  desire  to  be  on 
friendly  terms  with  him  than  did  Mr.  Aden — that  was  the 
name  he  was  known  by  on  the  mainland — with  them  ;  and 
the  women  and  children  who,  in  guiding  their  little  boats 
for  fishing  or  for  sport  through  the  channels  which  separated 
the  islands,  occasionally  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  tall,  muscu 
lar,  but  attenuated  form,  and  his  white,  wan  face,  around 
which  the  thick  hair,  whose  jetty  hue  was  yet  scarcely 
touched  by  time,  closely  curled,  and  which  was  lighted  up 
by  deep-set  burning  black  eyes,  always  regarded  the  stranger 
with  a  superstitious  fear,  which  deepened  into  terror  as  time 
passed  away. 

At  his  appointment  to  the  post  at  "  The  Rocks,"  which 
was  more  than  a  score  of  years  before,  Mr.  Aden  had  seemed 
disposed  to  form  the  acquaintance  of  the  islanders,  and  to 
be  on  friendly  terms  with  them,  though  they  never  had 
encoura.ged  his  advances.  When,  however,  the  light-keeper's 
intercourse  with  the  people  on  the  mainland  had  suddenly 
ceased,  he  also  restricted  himself  entirely  to  his  own  island  ; 
and  it  was  very  seldom  that  any  one  was  disposed  to  disturb 
his  solitude  there. 

Back  from  "  The  Sands,"  lay  the  village  of  H ,  a 

quiet,  unpretending  little  town  ;  its  inhabitants  being  far 
more  interested  in  acquiring  for  themselves  a  comfortable 
livelihood,  than  in  making  a  show  in  the  great  world  ;  gather 
ing  the  rewards  of  their  industry  and  frugality  frc-m  both  the 
ocean  and  the  sandy  soil,  which  about  equally  contributed  to 
their  support, 


io  By  the  Sea. 

Halfway  between  the  high  cliff  and  the  broad  shallow  bay 
were  the  "fish-houses,"  which,  with  two  exceptions,  were 
mere  sheds,  containing  only  the  conveniences  for  preparing 
fish  for  market — sacks  of  salt,  large  iron  kettles  for  boiling 
lobsters,  pickling  tubs  for  mackerel,  rude  tables  for  dressing 
the  cod,  and  the  "  flakes "  outside  the  shed,  on  which  they 
were  spread  to  dry. 

The  work  done  here  was  performed  principally  by  young 
women  and  girls,  the  homes  of  most  of  whom  were  within 
half  a  mile  of  "  The  Sands,"  and  when  the  fishing  season  was 
over  the  "  houses  "  were  unused  ;  but  the  two  families  whose 
buildings  were  at  some  distance  from  each  other,  and  both 
of  them  a  little  apart  from  the  other  fish-houses,  made  these 
places  their  permanent  abodes.  One  of  these  two  buildings 
had  been  increased  in  size  by  the  addition  of  two  pleasant, 
convenient  apartments  ;  but  the  owner  of  the  other  had 
made  no  improvement  in  the  abode  of  himself  and  his 
daughter  beside  closing  the  open  side  of  the  shed,  making  a 
division  of  the  one  large-sized  room  by  running  a  thin  parti 
tion  across  one  end  of  it,  hanging  a  good,  firm  door,  and 
putting  in  two  small  windows. 

These  two  families,  the  last  referred  to  being  named  Du 
Bois,  and  the  other  Maitland,  had  not  always  been  residents 
of  the  neighborhood. 

The  Maitlands  had  come  to  H nearly  twenty  years 

before.  They  were  young  people  then  ;  Mr.  Maitland  being 
a  little  past  thirty  years  of  age,  and  his  wife,  who  brought 
with  her  a  child  of  three  summers,  was  fully  ten  years 
younger  than  her  husband. 

When  they  came  to  the  place,  they  were  believed  to  be  in 


The  Sands.  1 1 

quite  affluent  circumstances  ;  but  they  had  the  appearance 
of  not  having  been  long  accustomed  to  the  possession  of 
wealth,  and  they  seemed  to  have  come  rather  unexpectedly 
into  its  enjoyment.  In  fact,  the  young  woman,  though 
gentle  in  her  manners,  and  very  far  from  being  intentionally 
ostentatious,  frequantly  made  such  thoughtless,  ingenuous 
allusions  to  her  husband's  pecuniary  affairs,  that  a  people 
less  inclined  to  mind  their  own  business  than  were  those 
among  whom  the  Maitlands  had  come  to  live,  would  have 
had  their  curiosity  excited  to  an  inordinate  degree. 

Sometimes  the  landlady  of  the  little  inn  where  they 
boarded  the  greater  part  of  the  first  three  years  of  their 
stay  at  the  place,  would  repeat  the  young  stranger's  un 
guarded  remarks  to  a  few  female  friends  she  met  with  at  a 
"  quilting  party,"  or  "  apple  bee  ;"  but  the  comments  which 
they  elicited  would  soon  be  forgotten  in  the  speculations  as 
to  the  rise  or  fall  in  price  of  the  few  commodities  the  indus 
trious  people  had  for  sale,  and  in  comparing  their  different 
successes  in  fishing,  in  the  dairy,  or  with  their  poultry. 

It  was  not  until  some  years  after  the  Maitlands'  first  ar 
rival  there,  that  "The  Sands"  began  to  be  the  somewhat 
fashionable  watering-place  it  now  is  ;  but  even  then  it  was 
no  unusual  thing  for  a  family  to  come  down  from  the  city 
and  spend  a  few  summer  months  by  the  sea  ;  and  conse 
quently  the  strangers  excited  less  attention  than  they  other 
wise  would  have  done;  and  when  Mr.  Maitland,  on  the  third 
year  of  his  coming  there — for  the  winter  months  were  spent 
elsewhere  by  the  family — began  to  erect  for  himself  a  hand 
some  residence  near  the  foot  of  the  cliff  overlooking  "  The 
Sands,"  the  people  with  whom  they  came  in  contact  had 


12  By  the  Sea. 

become  accustomed  to  the  reserved,  silent,  haughty  de 
meanor  of  the  man,  and  the  little  girlish,  ingenuous  ways 
of  the  simple-hearted  woman. 

Mr.  and  .Mrs.  Maitland  were  a  remarkably  fine-looking 
couple,  but  in  strong  contrast  with  each  other;  he,  tall,  dark 
and  muscular,  with  an  intellectual  face,  and  highly  polished 
manners,  but  repellant  in  his  cold,  glittering  black  eye, 
and  the  firm,  measured  tones  of  his  deep  voice  ;  repellant  in 
his  every  word  and  gesture  ;  and  she,  a  little  fair,  fragile 
thing,  with  cheeks  and  lips  of  the  faintest  rose  tint,  violet 
eyes,  and  a  face  like  an  April  day;  with  a  heart  large  enough 
to  embrace  the  whole  world,  but  with  a  head  that  held  no 
more  wisdom  than  was  needed  to  be  good  and  true. 

But,  evidently,  the  man  had  not  yet  begun  to  tire  of  his 
wife.  Perhaps  a  nature  like  his  can  love  longest  and  best 
such  a  gentle  nature  as  was  hers.  And  she,  glad  to  be  with 
him,  as  he  rowed  his  boat  over  the  bright,  wavy  waters,  in 
the  calm  summer  evening,  or  following  him  in  the  cool, 
breezy  morning,  as  he  sauntered  with  his  fowling-piece  in 
his  hand,  up  the  smooth,  white  beach,  or  with  her  little  boy 
playing  about  her,  sitting  on  the  rocks,  nestling  to  his  side, 
as  she  listened  to  the  tales  he  told  her  of  the  far-off  lands  he 
visited  before  he  had  seen  her,  watched  the  tide  coming  in, 
the  white  crests  of  the  waves  jewelled  by  the  light  of  the 
crimsoning  west,  and  looked  at  the  green  hills,  rising  like 
terraces  far  away,  and  the  mountain  stream,  hurrying  from 
them  like  a  swift-footed  happy  child  hastening  to  its  mo 
ther's  arms,  on  to  meet  the  sea,  with  a  sound  like  glad 
music,  and  ripples  like  merry  smiles  —  often  wondered, 
while  her  dilating  eyes  were  swimming  with  the  tears 


The  Sands.  13 

which  flowed,  she  knew  not  why,  as  she  gazed  alternately 
at  the  face  of  her  husband,  and  the  distant  blue  above,  and 
thought  of  the  words  she  often  read  : 

"  Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  neither-  hath  it  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive" — wondered  if  it  really 
could  be  true  ;  if  there  was,  in  the  wide  universe  of  God,  a 
place  so  beautiful  as  the  scene  about  her, — if  there  could  be 
a  life  fuller  of  enjoyment  than  was  her  own.  Ah!  the  sky 
over  her  was  clear,  and  she  could  not  see  that  cloud,  so 
frightfully  dark,  and  so  surcharged  with  lightnings  and  con 
centrated  tempests,  which  was  to  break  so  suddenly  upon  her. 

The  third  summer  they  had  passed  at  "  The  Sands"  was 
nearly  ended,  and  the  new  residence  would,  by  mid-autumn, 
be  completed,  when  one  evening,  as  the  young  wife  was 
dancing  with  girlish  delight  through  the  spacious  rooms 
which  the  workmen  had  cleared  lately  of  their  tools  and 
shavings,  the  fancy  seized  her  of  passing  the  night  in  the 
chamber  designed  for  their  sleeping  apartment,  and  she  re 
quested  her  husband  to  have  a  mattress  brought  over  from 
their  boarding-house. 

The  windows  and  doors  of  the  building  were  yet  without 
fastenings,  but  when  he  talked  about  intruders,  and  tried,  in 
an  unusually  playful  manner  for  him,  to  frighten  her,  she  only 
laughed,  and  finally  he  yielded  to  her  child-like  entreaties. 

But  though  he  was  in  a  sound  sleep  soon  after  stretching 
himself  on  the  mattress,  Mrs.  Maitland  was  strangely  wakeful. 
She  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  the  thought  that  her  child 
was  not  near  her,  as  he  had  been  every  night  before  since 
his  birth,  which  kept  her  so  sleepless,  or  the  moonlight  which 
came  in  such  great  white  sheets  through  the  uncurtained 


14  By  the  Sea. 

windows,  or  the  sound  of  dipping  oars  she  fancied  she  could 
hear  mingling  with  the  voices  of  the  vast  deep,  with  the 
grating  of  a  boat  against  the  rocks, — for  the  tide  was  coining 
in, — and  the  fall  of  a  foot  coming  up  over  the  ledge,  and 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  dwelling,  and,  at  length, 
faintly  echoing  through  the  empty  rooms  below  stairs ; 
though  this  could  not  be,  she  was  sure,  as  such  low  sounds 
would  be  lost  in  the  ocean's  roar  ;  or  whether  it  was  the  re 
membrance  which  fastened  itself  with  strange,  ever-increas 
ing  distinctness,  as  the  hours  passed  away,  of  one  terrible 
night  in  her  pleasant  life, — she  suddenly  opened  the  eyes, 
which  she  had  persistently  kept  shut  in  the  vain  endeavor  to 
find  sleep,  and  starting  up  to  a  sitting  posture,  put  her  arms 
quickly,  but  so  lightly  as  not  to  disturb  him,  around  her 
husband,  and  bent  her  head  to  his  ;  and  then  she  became 
aware  that  some  one  was  stooping  over  them. 

She  looked  up,  and  the  moonlight  was  falling  full  on  a  face 
she  had  seen  years  before,  distorted,  then,  with  an  agony 
worse  than  that  of  death,  and  a  hate  more  terrible  still ; 
sinking  down  into  a  flame-lighted  sea.  The  hate  was  yet 
there,  and  the  merciful  darkness  which  came  to  her  then, 
at  that  never-to-be-forgotten  moment,  was  again  before  her 
vision  ;  and  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  felt  herself  falling  back 
without  power  to  arouse  her  husband. 

When  her  consciousness  returned,  though  but  a  brief 
period  had  passed,  for  the  moon  seemed  not  to  have  shifted 
her  place  in  the  heavens,  her  husband  was  gone  from  her 
side,  and  from  that  hour  to  the  present,  though  fifteen  years 
had — oh,  so  slowly — since  gone  by,  she  had  never  seen  or 
heard  a  word  from  him. 


CHAPTER    II. 


THE    VISION. 

I HKOTJGH  the  autumn  and  winter  which  followed 
his  departure,  Mrs.  Maitland  had  lived  on  the 
hope  of  her  husband's  return. 
His  strange  absence  was  not  associated  in  her  mind 
with  the  appearance  of  that  terrible  face  she  had  seen 
on  the  night  he  had  left  her.  In  fact,  what  seemed  to  her  then 
such  a  frightful  apparition,  was  afterwards,  in  her  great 
grief,  little  dwelt  on  ;  for  she  regarded  it  only  as  one  of 
those  fearful  dreams — if  dreams  they  were,  for  they  seemed 
always  to  come  between  the  moments  of  waking  and  sleep 
ing — which  had  visited  her  at  brief  intervals  for  the  last  four 
years,  ever  since  that  fearful  night  at  sea. 

Her  husband  had  told  her  that  the  man  she  had  seen 
drowning  on  that  night,  was  found,  the  morning  after, 
floating  upon  the  water,  buoyed  up  by  a  life-preserver,  but 
quite  lifeless  and  frightfully  charred  ;  and  though  she  felt 
that  there  was  something  in  the  past  which  was  not  revealed 
to  her, — that  there  was  a  shadow  over  him  which  her  eye 

could  not  penetrate,  she  never  suspected  that  he  wished  to 

(15) 


1 6  By  the  Sea. 

deceive  her  in  the  slightest  particular  ;  and  she  loved  him 
all  the  more,  perhaps,  for  the  air  of  mystery  there  was  about 
him.  Lately  she  had  not  spoken  to  her  husband  of  this 
phantasm,  or  whatever  it  was,  which  had  been  presenting 
itself  so  unwelcomely  to  her,  so  excited  had  he  been  by  her 
last  reference  to  it. 

Previously  she  had  always  waked  him  in  the  night,  and 
tried  then  to  describe  to  him  the  scene  which  had  been 
passing  before  her  closed  eyes ;  but  this  time  it  was  in 
broad  daylight  that  she  had  told  him,  with  her  gaze  fixed  on 
his  face  ;  and  she  had  seen  that  firmly-built,  strong  frame 
tremble  as  with  an  ague,  those  tightly-closed,  proud,  red 
lips  draw  away  from  each  other,  convulsed  and  colorless, 
while  great  drops  of  perspiration  came  out  on  the  suddenly 
pallid  and  furrowed  brow. 

And  then  he  had  laughed  ;  and  his  laugh  was  very  fright 
ful,  it  was  so  wild  and  reckless  and  so  spasmodic.  But  in  a 
moment  he  was  himself  again,  and  very  soon  he  began  to 
talk  softly  and  soothingly  to  his  wife,  drawing  her  head  to 
his  bosom  ;  and  when,  as  he  told  her,  she  had  regained  her 
composure,  he  explained  to  her,  with  many  expressions  of 
the  deepest  and  tenderest  solicitude,  what  had  given  rise  to 
his  emotion. 

Sometimes,  he  said,  the  terrible  fear  had  come  to  him  that 
his  darling  wife  was  scarcely  in  the  full  possession  of  her 
reason.  Her  nervous  system  had  once  been  so  greatly  dis 
turbed  that  it  was  not  strange  it  should  require  a  long  time 
to  regain  its  former  tone.  But  she  must  endeavor  to  banish 
such  thoughts  as  she  had  been  indulging  in,  and  especially 
she  must  never  express  them  when  they  did  come  to  her  ; 


The   Vision.  1 7 

and  his  love  and  care,  and  the  quiet  life  by  the  sea,  would, 
he  believed,  soon  restore  her  mental  powers  to  their  accus 
tomed  vigor. 

She  had  accepted  his  explanation.  She  could  not  feel  that 
it  was  really  so, — that  her  reason  was,  sometimes,  almost 
leaving  her  ; — but  then  what  lunatic  ever  did  believe  himself 
really  mad  ?  and  her  husband  was  a  great  deal  wiser  than 
herself,  and  of  course  he  knew.  And  she  did  not  trouble 
him  any  more  by  speaking  of  these  strange  fancies,  though, 
notwithstanding  her  best  endeavors,  they  would  present 
themselves  to  her  mind  no  less  vividly,  till,  at  length,  with 
open  eyes,  and  in  the  bright  moonlight,  she  saw  that  face 
bending  over  her. 

And  what  was  the  dream,  or  the  vision  ? 

Mrs.  Maitland  was  the  only  child  of  a  poor  fisherman 
whose  home  had  been  near  a  little  hamlet  on  the  Kentish 
coast ;  and  her  husband  was  a  shipwrecked  man  whom  her 
father  had  picked  up  and  carried  to  his  home,  and  nursed, 
with  the  aid  of  his  daughter,  through  a  long  and  dangerous 
illness  ;  and  when  he  had  recovered  his  health,  the  stranger 
had  asked  her  to  become  his  wife,  and  her  father  had  given 
her  to  him,  with  his  blessing,  though  she  was  very  young  ; 
for  she  had  been  motherless  for  years,  and  her  surviving 
parent,  who  was  her  only  relative,  and  beside  whom  there 
was  no  one  to  care  for  her,  was  so  infirm  that  he  had  lived 
scarcely  a  year  after  his  daughter's  marriage. 

During  that  year,  and  the  two  which  had  succeeded  it, 
Mr.  Maitland  found  employment  in  the  village  on  the  out 
skirts  of  which  was  their  humble  home  ;  and  he  had  labored 
very  industriously,  for  his  business  was  far  from  being  a 


1 8  By  the  Sea. 

lucrative  one ;  and  his  young  wife  had  managed  her  little 
domestic  affairs  with  great  prudence  and  economy,  so  that 
a  sum  of  money  might  be  laid  aside  sufficient  to  take  them 
across  the  ocean — beyond  which,  her  husband  had  told  her, 
his  former  home  had  been — and  to  enable  them  to  com 
mence  housekeeping  there  in  an  unpretending  way.  At 
length  with  their  son,  now  two  years  of  age,  they  had  em 
barked  on  an  ill-fated  ship  for  their  yoyage  over  the  sea. 

The  passage  was  not  quite  half  completed,  when,  one  day, 
just  as  the  sun  was  going  down,  Mrs.  Maitland,  almost 
fainting,  and  well  nigh  frantic  with  grief  and  terror,  but 
clasping  her  little  boy  closely  in  her  arms,  felt  herself 
guided,  with  swift  firm  hands,  into  a  boat  already  well- 
filled  ;  though  the  occupants  had  called  out  to  the  two 
men,  one  of  whom  was  her  husband,  and  the  other  a  pale, 
delicate-looking  man,  apparently  in  ill-health,  who,  rather 
supported  by,  than  sustaining,  the  beautiful  woman  by  his 
side,  was  gazing  with  fixed  eyes  up  to  heaven,  while  words 
in  a  foreign  language  were  coming  in  agonized  tones  from 
his  lips, — the  occupants  of  the  boat  had  called  out : 

"Boom  for  the  women  and  children!" 

The  French  woman  had  a  babe  in  her  arms  as  well  as 
Mrs.  Maitland, — a  little,  peacefully-slumbering  thing,  not 
more  than  three  months  old. 

"  Koom  for  the  women  and  children !  The  men  must  wait 
for  the  other  boat." 

Mrs.  Maitland  saw  her  husband  glance  around  him. 
There  were  no  people  on  that  part  of  the  burning  ship 
beside  themselves  and  the  two  foreigners,  who  did  not 
immediately  comprehend  the  meaning  of  the  words ;  but 


The   Vision.  19 

when  Mr.  Maitland  began  quickly  to  guide  his  wife  to  the 
ship's  side,  the  stranger  saw  what  was  meant,  and  a  smile 
almost  gloriously  beautiful  in  its  deep  thankfulness,  came 
over  his  suddenly-flushed  face,  and  with  a  glance  of  paternal 
affection  at  the  unconscious  infant,  an  instant's  firm  clasping 
of  his  arms  about  his  wife,  and  a  look  of  unutterable  love, 
he  put  her,  after  placing  a  small  casket  into  her  handj 
resolutely  from  him  ;  for  with  her  disengaged  arm  she  was 
clinging  to  her  husband  with  a  firmness  which  implied  that 
death  would  be  preferable  to  separation. 

Mrs.  Maitland  had  observed  all  this.  Notwithstanding 
the  almost  maddening  realization  of  her  own,  her  husband's, 
and  her  child's  danger,  the  scene  which  passed  before  her 
had  fastened  itself  with  the  most  wonderful  clearness  on 
her  mind  ;  and  the  countenances  of  the  two  strangers  had 
such  a  fascination  for  her,  that  har  marnory  never  after 
suffered  one  of  their  features  to  lose  a  portion  of  its  distinct 
ness. 

She  knew  that  the  man  would  not  trust  his  own  trembling 
hands  to  guide  his  wife  to  the  boat.  Mr.  Maitland  would 
do  that.  How  firm  and  steady  his  hold  on  herself  was ! 
But,  oh !  though  she  had  reached  the  boat  in  safety,  and 
her  little  boy  was  by  her  side,  her  husband  was  again  on  the 
deck  of  the  burning  ship. 

Some  one  said  that  the  other  boat  was  far  less  safe  than 
this.  Perhaps  she  would  never  again  feel  the  clasp  of  his 
arms  about  her  ;  perhaps  she  was  forever  separated  from  his 
side.  She  struggled  from  the  hands  of  those  who  were 
placing  her  upon  a  seat,  and  rose  to  her  feet,  stretching  out 
her  arms  in  a  wild,  mute  agony  towards  him,  and  looking 


2O  By  the  Sea. 

after  him,  through  the  hot  smoke,  which  a  sudden,  swift 
breeze  swept  in  such  a  dense  volume  down  the  ship's  side  as 
to  blind  all  eyes  but  those  despairing  ones,  which  had  better 
have  been  darkened  forever  than  to  have  seen  what  was 
passing  within  the  folds  of  that  cloud. 

And  what  did  she  see  ? 

Assuredly  nothing !  No  one  in  the  boat  with  her  saw 
anything  wrong.  There  was  a  shriek  from  a  woman  in  the 
water,  and  the  low  wail  of  a  young  child ;  but  there  were 
many  cries,  and  wild  prayers,  and  fierce  oaths  mingling  with 
the  war  of  the  fire.  The  boat  was  pulled  away  from  the 
ship,  for  the  flames,  in  the  rising  breeze,  flared  widely  out. 
There  was  no  time  to  look  for  the  drowning  woman.  Every 
one  must  think  only  of  his  own  safety  ;  and,  beside,  the 
boat  was  now  full. 

Mrs.  Maitland  had  sunk  down,  she  afterwards  thought,  in  a 
.  swoon  ;  but  when  consciousness  returned,  her  husband  was 
by  her  side,  and  his  arm  was  about  her,  though  his  face  was 
turned  away,  and  he  was  not  speaking  to  her  ;  neither  could 
she  address  him,  for  the  fancy — it  could  be  nothing  else — 
which  had  come  to  her  as  she  was  falling  into  that  swoon, 
and  which  had  followed  her  ever  since  in  her  dreams,  seemed 
then  so  like  a  horrible  reality  that  the  power  of  speech  had 
forsaken  her.  She  only  sought  her  husband's  eyes. 

They  were  fixed  with  a  sort  of  fascination  upon  the  water, 
which  a  light  flame,  suddenly  leaping  up  through  the  cloud 
of  smoke,  seemed  to  change  to  a  sea  of  fire.  Mrs.  Maitla,nd 
looked  too,  and  away,  coming  out  of  the  shadow  which  that 
brightness  made  so  deep,  though  the  light  was  more  fright 
ful  than  the  shade,  she  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  struggling 


The   Vision.  2 1 

through  the  water,  making  almost  superhuman  efforts  to 
reach  the  boat,  which  was  yet  but  a  short  distance  from  the 
buruing  ship. 

The  red  glare  fell  on  his  uplifted  face,  and  she  dis 
tinguished  the  countenance  as  that  of  the  Frenchman  ;  but 
what  a  change  had  passed  over  those  features,  whose  ex 
pression,  as  he  neared  the  boat,  was  almost  as  clearly 
defined  as  if  the  light  of  noonday  was  falling  upon  it !  The 
agony  of  grief,  of  deepest  hate  and  of  vengeful  purpose 
seemed  striving  for  the  mastery  in  that  countenance  ;  and 
words,  which  were  uttered  in  the  bitterest  tone,  came  fast 
from  his  lips,  though  she  could  not  understand  them  ;  and, 
perhaps,  they  were  not  fully  comprehended  by  any  one  on 
board  the  boat.  But  stern  faces  began  to  be  turned  towards 
Mr.  Maitland,  and  some  one  threw  a  life-preserver  to  the 
sinking  man,  for  his  strength  was  now  exhausted.  He 
made  a  feeble  clutch  at  it,  but  whether  he  reached  it  or  not 
she  could  not  tell,  for  as  that  face  disappeared  beneath  the 
water,  Mrs.  Maitland  sank  insensible  at  her  husband's  feet. 

And  what  had  sbe  fancied  that  she  saw  when  he  was 
standing  on  the  deck  of  the  ship,  when  she,  with  such 
acute  vision,  was  looking  through  the  dense  smoke  which 
blinded  all  other  eyes  ? 

He  had  stretched  out  his  hands  towards  the  young 
French  woman,  to  whose  countenance  there  seemed  to 
come,  as  her  eyes  met  his,  a  look  of  recognition  ;  .and  lifted 
her  over  the  ship's  side,  apparently  with  care  and  gentleness; 
and  then  —  then  his  fingers  let  go  their  hold  on  hers  ;  and 
she  lost  her  footing,  and  went  down,  with  the  babe  in  her 
arms ;  but  the  casket  remained  in  Mr.  Maitland's  hand ! 


22  By  the  Sea. 

Tears  had  passed  since  that  terrible  evening ;  the  night 
of  Mr.  Maitland's  strange  disappearance  was  almost  its 
fourth  anniversary  ;  and  time  had  glided  by,  like  a  summer 
day,  to  the  young  wife.  The  change  in  her  husband's  pecu 
niary  affairs,  which  had  become  very  apparent  to  her  imme 
diately  after  their  arrival  in  America,  was  explained  by  him 
to  his  wife  in  a  manner  which  would  have  been  satisfac 
tory  to  a  more  inquiring  mind  than  was  hers. 

To  another  woman,  it  might  have  seemed  strange  that  he 
did  not  take  her  to  his  native  city,  after  being  so  long  absent 
from  it  as  he  had  been,  and  introduce  her  to  some  of  his 
former  acquaintances  ;  (his  near  relatives,  he  had  told  his 
wife,  were  all  dead,)  and  not  many  wives  whose  husbands  are 
in  such  affluent  circumstances  as  Mr.  Maitland  appeared  to 
be,  would  be  quite  satisfied  to  remain,  for  a  length  of  time, 
so  completely  shut  out  from  society  as  she  was  ;  for  though 
the  winter  months  had,  thus  far,  been  spent  in  the  city,  and 
Mr.  Maitland  had  intended  to  use  his  dwelling  near  "  The 
Sands,"  only  as  a  summer  residence,  her  situation  there  had 
been  almost  as  isolated  as  it  was  by  the  sea-shore  ;  an 
occasional  visit  to  some  public  place  of  amusement,  a  few 
rides,  and  now  and  then  a  little  shopping  expedition,  were 
all  the  variations  in  her  monotonous  boarding-house  life. 

But  the  gentle,  loving  wife  and  mother  never  thought  she 
had  cause  for  complaint.  She  was  perfectly  satisfied  with 
everything,  about  her.  The  society  and  affection  of  her 
husband  and  her  child  were  all  that  she  desired,  and  con 
sequently  when  he  had  left  her,  all  but  her  child  was  gone. 

In  the  wide  world  there  was  not  one  more  than  another  to 
whom  she  could  look  for  assistance  or  advice. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HOLY    THUESDAY. 

[HE  finishing  of  the  new  house  did  not  go  on  for 
more  than  a  week  or  two  after  Mr.  Maitland's 
disappearance.  The  materials  for  its  construc 
tion  had,  most  of  them,  been  paid  for ;  but  the  workmen 
employed  on  it  had  received  no  compensation  for  their 
labor,  and  the  deserted  wife,  while  certain  that  her  hus 
band  had  means  enough  at  his  command,  knew  not  where 
to  find  a  dollar  except  by  the  sale  of  her  clothing,  or 
her  inexpensive  jewelry  ;  and  though  the  Maitlands  had 
always  paid  their  landlady  in  advance,  the  quarter  was  now 
within  a  few  days  of  its  expiration. 

The  people  among  whom  she  was,  were  as  kind  and 
considerate  as  one  could  expect  them  to  be  ;  but  before 
winter  came,  the  unfinished  house  was  sold,  the  purchaser 
promising  that,  if  her  husband  should  return  within  six 
months  after  his  disappearance,  the  building  might  be 
redeemed  for  the  price  paid  for  it. 

Fortunately  it  brought  enough,  even  in  the  forced  sale, 
to  pay  all  the  debts,  to  defray  the  moderate  expenses  of  her- 


24  By  the  Sea. 

self  and  her  now  six-year-old  boy,  through  the  winter,  and 
to  leave  her  a  trifle  at  the  opening  of  spring.  She  had  re 
fused  to  receive  a  dollar  more  than  was  left  after  the  debts 
were  paid. 

While  the  winter  months  had  been  passing  away,  her 
hopes  of  her  husband's  return  were  becoming  fainter  and 
fainter.  They  quite  died  out  when  the  bright  spring  came, 
and  the  anniversary  of  the  day  returned  when  she  and  her 
husband  had  first  walked  over  "  The  Sands  "  together. 

The  carpenters  had  resumed  their  work  on  the  dwelling 
which  was  to  have  been  her  home.  There  were  changes  to 
be  made  in  the  original  design,  for  it  was  the  intention 
of  its  present  owner  to  make  a  fine  hotel  of  it;  and  Mrs. 
Maitland  would  sit  for  hours  together  at  the  window  of  her 
boarding-house,  looking  out  through  her  fast-dropping 
tears,  watching  the  progress  of  the  work,  every  blow  of  the 
hammer  falling  on  her  ear  with  a  knell-like  sound. 

One  night,  it  was  a  mild  evening  late  in  May,  and  the 
soft  land-breeze,  passing  over  "  The  Sands,"  was  filled  with 
the  breath  of  spring,  the  aroma  from  the  fresh,  fragrant 
grasses,  and  the  sweet-scented  blossoms  of  the  fruit  trees, 
from  the  ferns  and  mosses,  and  swelling  buds,  and  bursting 
flowers  in  the  wooded  hills  rising  up  far  away.  One  year 
since,  on  such  a  day  as  this  had  been,  she  had  wandered  by 
her  husband's  side,  seeking  the  sweet  spring  flowers,  some  of 
which  were  new  to  her,  which  were  forcing  their  way  up 
through  the  thick  matting  that  autumn  1\a  t  spread  over 
the  ground,  or  timidly  shrinking  away  with  their  little 
modest  faces  bent  to  the  earth,  in  the  sheltered  nooks 
among  the  rocks,  and  gathering  the  young,  spicy  leaves 


Holy   Thursday.  25 

of  the  wintergreen,  and  sweet  red  berries,  which  looked,  in 
the  cunning  little  moss  baskets  her  fingers  had  so  deftly 
fashioned,  like  beautiful  precious  things. 

She  remembered  the  thoughts  which  had  come  to  her  then; 
simple,  child-like  thoughts  they  were,  but  they  seemed  very 
pleasant  to  her, — how,  through  the  long  winter,  the  wind, 
the  cold,  the  snow,  through  the  short,  sunless  days,  and  the 
dreary  lengthened  nights,  when  everything  appeared  so  in 
ert  and  lifeless,  those  little  flower-buds,  hidden  away  among 
the  withered  leaves,  had  trustingly  waited  for  the  dawning 
of  their  morning  ;  and  those  sweet,  red  berries,  nestling 
close  to  each  other,  were  busily  dyeing  their  blood -red  cov 
ering,  while  their  little  unchilled  heads  were  growing  pure 
and  white. 

Patiently  waiting,  and  patiently  working!  and  at  length 
their  hour  of  reward  had  come. 

Mrs.  Maitland  wrapped  her  shawl  about  her,  her  little  boy 
was  sleeping,  and  stepping  out  into  the  open  air,  took  her 
way  up  the  cliff. 

The  sound  of  the  workmen's  tools  had  ceased  within  the 
new  building,  and  she  paused  a  moment  as  she  passed  the 
windows,  for  the  carpenters  had  left  for  their  homes,  and 
looked  in  ;  and  then,  with  a  quickened  pace  pursued  her  way 
up  the  cliff,  almost  dropping  to  the  earth  as  she  reached  its 
brow.  She  had  not  been  there  before  since  her  husband  left 
her,  though  this  had  formerly  been  a  favorite  walk  of  hers. 
Almost  daily,  when  the  weather  was  pleasant,  she  had  come 
here  to  look  out  on  the  sea  as  the  sun  was  going  down. 

Beside  her,  her  head  was  resting  on  it  now,  was  the  round 
white  stone  Mr.  Maitland  had,  one  day,  spent  hours  in  roll- 

2 


26  By  the  Sea. 

ing  up  here,  and  partially  imbedded  in  the  earth,  that  it 
might  serve  as  a  seat  for  her;  and  there  were  the  handfuls  of 
white  pebbles  and  sea-shells,  scattered  about  in  the  short, 
scanty  grass,  with  which  he  and  his  little  boy  had  often 
playfully  pelted  at  each  other. 

Would  they  ever  meet  again,  the  father  and  his  son  ? 

The  desolate  woman  did  not  think,  now,  that  she  should 
ever  again  see  her  husband.  She  believed  that  her  life  was 
passing  away,  for  as  the  spring  advanced  her  health  seemed 
to  fail,  and  she  did  not  even  for  her  child's  sake  wish  it  to  be 
prolonged.  She  hoped  that  the  people  among  whom  she  ex 
pected  to  leave  him,  would  be  kind  to  her  boy  when  she  was 
gone  from  him  forever. 

The  sun  had  some  moments  since  disappeared  from  the 
horizon,  its  last  lingering  ray  had  faded  even  from  the  sum 
mit  of  the  cliff,  and  here  and  there  a  twinkling  eye  was 
faintly  peeping  down  from  the  deep  blue  heaven.  The  tide 
was  in,  and  the  low  monotone  of  the  ocean  sounded  like  a 
soothing  lullaby.  The  fishing-boats  were  going  out  that 
night ;  they  had,  some  time  since,  pushed  off  from  the  shore, 
and  the  cheerful  tones  which,  not  long  before,  had  come  up 
from  the  fish-houses,  were  hushed  now,  and  not  a  human 
sound  was  heard,  or  living  thing  but  herself  seen  anywhere 
near. 

Mrs.  Maitland  lifted  her  head. 

Yes,  there  was  some  one  in  the  dress  of  a  fisherman, 
walking  up  and  down  the  bea^h  just  below  the  cliff,  stopping 
now  and  then  and  looking  out  over  the  water,  as  if  waiting 
and  watching  for  something  ;  and  following  him,  clad  in  a 
little  dark  frock,  was  a  child,  not  more  than  three  or  four 


Holy   Thursday.  27 

years  of  age,  who  was  striving,  but  for  the  most  of  the  time 
ineffectually,  its  companion  made  such  long  and  rapid 
strides,  to  keep  by  his  side  ;  sometimes  falling  down  on  the 
wet  sand  when  the  man  walked  near  the  water's  edge,  but 
picking  up  its  little  self  as  best  it  could,  for  its  mishaps 
seemed  not  to  be  observed  by  its  companion,  and  trying  to 
wipe  the  salt,  bitter  sand  from  its  face  with  its  short,  scanty 
dress. 

Mrs.  Maitland  watched  the  two  for  some  time.  She  knew, 
by  sight,  at  least,  all  the  fishermen  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
their  children ;  but  though  they  were  at  such  a  distance 
from  her,  that  their  features  could  not  be  distinguished,  she 
thought  they  must  be  strangers.  For  a  few  moments,  while 
looking  at  them,  she  forgot  her  own  sorrows,  and  her  heart 
was  filled  with  pity  for  the  little  one.  The  child  stooped 
down  to  the  ground,  digging  its  little  fingers  into  the  sand, 
apparently  to  unearth  some  fancied  treasure,  and  then  tried, 
though  it  seemed  to  be  growing  weary,  to  run  fast  to  over 
take  its  companion,  turning  its  face  up  to  his  when  he  at 
length  stopped,  and  reaching  out  the  small  hand  which  held 
the  treasure  ;  but  he  put  away  the  little  creature  so  rudely 
that  it  fell  to  the  ground;  and  the  tears  came  to  the  woman's 
eyes  as  she  gazed  and  wondered  if  the  man  could  be  the 
child's  father,  and  if  it  had  a  mother  living. 

She  watched  them  till  they  walked  away  ;  the  child,  as  if 
discouraged  by  its  repulse,  following  the  man  at  a  short 
distance,  and  at  length  they  passed  beyond  her  sight ;  but 
she  thought  they  had  entered  one  of  the  fish-houses,  the 
most  distant  one,  and  that  which  was  situated  farthest  apart 
from  the  others. 


28  By  the  Sea. 

She  began  to  think  of  her  own  child,  then,  and  to  ask  her 
self  if  it  was  not  very  selfish  and  wicked  in  her  to  be 
unwilling  to  bear  the  burden  which  was  laid  upon  her,  and 
cheerfully  too,  for  his  sake  ;  and  the  thoughts  she  had  been 
dwelling  upon  half  an  hour  before,  came  back  to  her  mind. 

Patiently  waiting,  and  patiently  watching  ;  and  at  length 
the  hour  of  reward  had  come  ! 

And  then  through  the  silent  air,  —  silent  but  for  the 
ocean's  soft  lullaby  as  it  seemed  rocking  itself  to  rest, — there 
came  to  her  ear  the  sound  of  a  distant  bell ;  very  faint  at 
first,  but  growing  more  and  more  distant,  as  she  listened 
with  hushed  breath. 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever,  from  this  spot,  caught 
the  sound,  though  she  had  been  told  that  one  of  the  bells  at 
"  The  Port,"  was  sometimes  heard  at  "The  Sands  ;"  and  she 
suddenly  remembered  that  this  was  Holy  Thursday. 

"  Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ?" 

And  fuller  of  silvery  sweetness,  and  of  happy  rejoicing,  St. 
Mary's  bell  seemed  to  ring  out  the  refrain  : 

"  Who  is  the  King  of  glory?" 
"  The  Lord  strong  and  mighty, 

Even  the  Lord  of  hosts — 

He  is  the  King  of  glory !" 

" The  Lord  of  hosts!"— 

were  the  words  borne  to  her  by  the  undulating  air  ?  Did 
they  come  up  from  the  depths  of  the  ocean  ?  Did  her  mem 
ory  take  utterance  and  whisper  them  in  her  ear  ?  or  was  it 
the  still,  small  Voice,  which  came  after  the  wind,  the  earth 
quake,  and  the  fire, — the  Voice,  at  whose  sound  the  prophet 


Holy   Thursday.  29 

"  wrapped  his  face  in  his  mantle,  and  stood  at  the  entering 
in  of  the  cave  "  ? 

"  Thy  Maker  is  thy  husband  ;  the  Lord  of  hosts  is  his 
name. — In  a  little  wrath  I  hid  my  face  from  thee  ;  but  with 
everlasting  kindness  will  I  have  mercy  on  thee,  saith  the 
Lord,  thy  Redeemer. " 

And  she  cast  down  her  burden  at  His  feet,  and  with 
quivering  lips  answered  in  the  words  of  the  Psalm  she  had 
read  that  day, — in  her  loneliness  and  despair, — almost  with 
out  thought,  but  which  came  to  her  now  in  all  their  comfort 
ing  significance  : 

"  Thou  art  my  defence  and  my  shield,  and  my  trust  is  in 
thy  word !" 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Maitland  rose  from  her  bed  some 
time  before  the  sun  was  up,  combed  out  her  long,  fair  curls, 
and  bound  them  in  close  braids,  and  with  flying  fingers 
made  for  herself  a  long  wide  apron,  and  put  a  deep  tuck  in  the 
skirt  of  her  plainest  dress  ;  and  when,  to  the  great  astonish 
ment  oi  her  landlady,  she  had  arrayed  herself  in  these  gar 
ments,  and  tied  a  handkerchief  about  her  head,  she  walked 
with  ungloved  hands  down  to  the  fish-houses  on  "The 
Sands"  to  seek  employment. 

Her  father  was  a  fisherman,  and  had  often  been  in  such 
ill-health  that  he  had  needed  her  assistance  in  all  the  details 
of  his  business,  so  she  could  do  anything  which  might  be  re 
quired  of  her  by  an  employer. 

This  she  said  very  simply  to  the  pleasant-faced  young 
woman  to  whom  she  offered  her  services  ;  and  her  offer  was 
accepted,  though  the  little  thin  hands,  long  unused  to  labor 
now,  did  not  look  as  if  they  could  ever  earn  for  her  and  her 


30  By  the  Sea. 

child  their  daily  bread ;  and  many  times,  during  the  first 
day's  labor,  the  young  fish-woman  left  her  own  work  to  give 
a  helping  hand  to  Mrs.  Maitland. 

But  after  a  week  had  passed,  strength  began  to  come  to 
her  ;  a  faint  color  returned  to  the  pale  face,  and  her  step 
was  firmer  ;  and  though  her  words  were  very  few  now,  the 
tones  of  her  voice  expressed  patience  and  resignation.  So 
changed  was  she  that  her  thrifty  landlady,  who,  while  she  had 
felt  very  sorry  for  her,  did  not  understand  how  Mrs.  Mait 
land  could  have  sat,  as  she  had  been  doing,  all  through  those 
months  which  had  followed  her  husband's  departure,  with 
her  hands  lying  idly  on  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  almost  blinded 
with  tears,  thus  making  herself  thinner  and  paler  every  day  ; 
and  prophesied  that  before  a  year  had  passed,  her  child  and 
she,  too,  unless  she  mourned  herself  to  death  before  that 
time,  would  be  dependent  on  public  charity  for  support — now 
declared  it  her  belief  that  there  was  more  in  the  yoting 
woman  than  any  one  could  have  supposed. 

With  a  little  encouragement,  Mrs.  Brown  thought,  and  the 
assistance  which  her  boy  would  very  soon  render  her,  for  he 
was  very  strong  and  active  for  his  age,  she  would  soon  be 
able  to  take  care  of  herself  and  him  quite  comfortably. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


THE    LIGHT-HOUSE    KEEPEE. 

jjALF  an  hour  after  sunset  on  the  night  of  Mr. 
Maitland's  desertion  of  his  wife  and  child,  two 
people  were  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the 
weedy  and  grass-grown  gravel  walk  that  led  from  a  broken, 
hingeless  gate,  to  an  old  dilapidated  dwelling  nearly  a  mile 

distant  from  that  part  of  N designated  by  the  residents 

at  "  The  Sands,"  as  "  The  Port." 

It  was  something  unusual  that  there  should  be  more  than 
one  walking  there,  and  she,  a  young  woman  of  nineteen  or 
twenty  years,  was  not  often  visible  in  front  of  the  house  ; 
though  many  times  during  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of 
weather,  she  might  be  observed  far  back  in  the  wide,  almost 
entirely  neglected  garden,  sometimes  busying  herself  in  a 
little  vegetable  patch,  or  gathering  the  fruits  which  would 
grow  without  care  ;  but  usually  wandering  idly  about  with 
a  sad  and  listless  air. 

Her  countenance,  as  she  walked  beside  her  companion, 
who  was  a  tall,  fine-looking  man,  a  dozen  or  more  years  her 

senior,  was  as  dejected  as  ever,  though  it  was  now  sufficiently 

(31) 


32  By  the  Sea. 

animated  in  expression  ;  and  her  words,  for  she  seemed  to 
be  the  principal  speaker,  came  in  low  and  soft,  but  very  rapid 
tones,  from  her  thin  white  lips. 

Thin  and  white;  and  the  cheeks  were  pale,  and  the  hands, 
which  would  have  been  fair,  though  they  were  accustomed 
to  labor,  were  far  too  delicate  to  be  beautiful. 

Near  by  them  sat  one  whom  a  careless  observer  might 
have  called  a  very  aged  man,  but  whom  a  second  glance 
showed  to  be  infirm  before  his  time.  He  was  sitting  in  an 
old,  uncushioned,  straight-backed  chair,  which  had  been 
drawn  out  to  a  safe  place  on  the  veranda,  much  of  the  floor 
ing  of  which,  rotted  by  time  and  neglect,  was  crumbling 
away ;  his  poor,  bent  body  lying  heavily  against  the 
arm  of  the  chair,  and  his  feet,  which  occasionally  moved 
as  if  from  pain,  resting  on  an  uncomfortably  high  wooden 
stool. 

He  was  very  poorly  clad,  but  everything  about  him  was 
scrupulously  clean.  Not  a  speck  of  dust  was  upon  his 
clothing,  and  every  thread  of  the  yet  slightly  silvered  hair 
lay  smoothly  on  his  bowed  head. 

His  eyes,  which  were  so  bright  and  piercing  that  one 
might  have  fancied  they  had  drawn  to  themselves  all  the 
vitality  of  the  whole  body,  followed  the  two  who  walked  up 
and  down  the  gravel  path,  but  not  scrutinizingly  ;  the  few 
words  which  he  occasionally  addressed  to  them  were  kind 
and  pleasant,  and  the  answers  which  were  returned,  not  in  a 
heightened  tone,  though  the  speakers  drew  near  him  when 
they  replied,  were  so  loving  and  respectful  that  they  always 
brought  a  smile  to  the  old  man's  face. 

"  He  is  so  very  good,  and  tries  to  be  so  kind  to  me,  that  I 


The  Light-house  Keeper.  33 

do  not  like  to  reply  fully  to  your  questions,  George !"  said 
the  girl. 

She  and  her  companion  were  turning  again  down  the 
path,  after  exchanging  a  few  words  with  their  friend.  The 
tears  had  come  into  her  eyes  as  she  was  speaking. 

"  But  yoii  come  here  so  seldom  now,  that  I  may  not  have 
another  opportunity  for  telling  you." 

"  You  know  why  I  do  not  come  here  oftener,  Rachel !" 
her  companion  replied,  earnestly  and  inquiringly. 

Perhaps  she  might  have  known,  but  she  did  not  say  so  ; 
and  after  a  moment  she  continued  : 

"  He  tries, — as  he  has  always  done,  ever  since  he  brought 
me,  a  poor  little  friendless  orphan  to  his  home, — to  make 
me  happy  :  only  he  does  not  know  how  to  render  me  so. 
He  does  not  see  that  a  few  dollars  spent  now  for  things 
absolutely  necessary  for  his  comfort  as  well  as  my  own,  would 
do  me  much  more  good  than  to  hear  so  often  of  the  many 
thousands  which  he  intends,  by-and-by,  shall  be  mine  ; 
especially  as  I  know  I  can  never  be  his  heir,  for  I  shall  not 
live." 

"Rachel!" 

"  It  is  true,  George !  I  cannot  live  if  I  remain  here.  Life 
is  a  burden  to  me,  not  only  from  the  weariness  and  useless- 
ness  of  my  existence — yes,  uselessness,  for  some  one  with 
more  energy  and  strength  of  mind  than  I  possess,  would 
soon  make  such  a  change  in  everything  about  him,  that  he 
would  be  far  more  comfortable  and  happy  than  he  is  with 
me  ; — not  only  from  weariness  and  the  conscious  uselessness 
of  my  existence,  but  from  actual  want. 

'•'  \Ve  have  no  books,  no  society  :  there  is  no  employment 

2* 


34  -By  the  Sea. 

but  what  is  too  laborious  for  me  to  perform  ; — nothing  to 
occupy  my  thoughts,  nothing  interesting  to  busy  my  hands  ; 
and,  besides,  we  are  often  in  need  of  proper  food,  to  say 
nothing  of  suitable  clothing  ;  and  Mr.  Hall  is  continually  be 
coming  more  penurious. 

"  Every  night,  when  I  go  to  bed," — the  girl  was  laughing 
now,  but  she  was  still  sadly  in  earnest — "  every  night  when  I 
go  to  bed  I  am  afraid  the  old  house  will  tumble  down  upon 
us  before  morning. 

"But  what  distresses  me  more  than  anything  else,  just 
now,"  she  continued,  "is  a  fact  that  I  learned  yesterday,  by 
accident,  from  an  old  friend  of  my  guardian.  He  came  here 
to  talk  with  Mr.  Hall  about  his  sister,  whose  husband  had 
lately  died,  leaving  her  and  a  family  of  young,  interesting 
girls  in  very  indigent  circumstances,  and  to  entreat  him  to 
concern  himself  with  her  affairs  ;  and  his  reply  was  that  he 
had  promised  to  give  Rachel  all  his  property,  and  conse 
quently  could  do  nothing  for  any  one  else,  not  even  his  only 
sister. 

"  I  rushed  into  his  room  the  moment  the  old  gentleman 
left  the  house,"  the  girl  went  on,  hurriedly,  "  and  threw  my 
self  at  his  feet,  and  tried  to  thank  him  for  what  he  had  done, 
and  for  what  he  intended  to  do  for  me  ;  and  then  I  prayed 
him  to  make  a  comfortable  home  for  his  sister  and  her 
daughters,  and  hereafter  to  live  with  them,  and  let  them 
know  they  were  to  be  his  heirs  :  and  that  I— may  I  tell  you 
what  more  I  said  to  him,  George  ?" 

"  Yes,  Rachel,  and  I  hope  you  told  him  what  I  wished 
you  to  months  ago !"  said  the  young  man,  earnestly. 

"I  began  to,"  she  replied,  dropping  her  eyes.     "J  said, 


The  Light-house  Keeper.  3.5 

'  There  is  a  young  man  whom  you  and  every  one  else  who 
knows  him,  highly  respects,  who  will,  with  your  consent,  ask 
me  to  be  his  wife,  and  will  provide  for  me.'  •  But  he  inter 
rupted  me  there,  and  with  such  hard,  cruel  words  that  I 
could  only  rise  to  my  feet,  and  stand  trembling  before  him. 
Strangely  enough,  he  thought  it  was  young  Captain  Sin 
gleton  to  whom  I  referred,  and  I  did  not  undeceive  him,  for 
I  could  not  have  heard  him  apply  those  opprobrious  epithets 
to  you,  George,  which  he  bestowed  on  him  ;  though  cousin 
Edgar  is  as  deserving  of  respect  as  yourself. 

"  I  am  glad  his  ship  is  to  sail  in  the  morning,  for  I  think 
Mr.  Hall,  who  has  been  greatly  discomposed,  until  within 
the  past  hour,  ever  since  I  so  spoke  to  him,  is  now  comfort 
ing  himself  with  the  determination  of  sending  to  Captain 
Singleton  to-morrow,  and  forbidding  his  coming  here  again  ; 
and  that  would  distress  me  very  much,  Edgar  has  been  so 
kind  to  me  since  he  learned  I  was  his  cousin." 

They  walked  on  for  some  moments  in  silence,  when  she 
had  ceased  speaking,  and  then  the  young  man  said,  in  an 
altered  tone  : 

"And  so  your  cousin's  fine  new  ship  is  to  sail  in  the 
morning  ;  and  the  physician  whom  I  consulted,  a  few  days 
since,  says  that  a  sea  voyage  would,  most  likely,  be  very 
beneficial  to  your  health.  Eachel,  does  it  not  surprise  you, 
that  loving  you  as  you  know  I  do,  and  seeing  how  miserable 
you  are  here,  suffering  an  almost  daily  death,  I  do  not  ask 
you,  without  waiting  for  any  one's  consent,  to  leave  this  old 
man,  whose  heart  was  always  good,  but  whose  intellect, 
aside  from  his  business  capacity,  was  rather  feeble,  and  is 
most  surprisingly  so  now,  and  whose  wealth,  even  if  he  had 


36  By  the  Sea. 

no  relations  to  care  for  his  comfort,  would  secure  for  him 
all  the  service  he  needs — that  I  do  not  ask  you  to  go  with 
me,  to  become  my  cherished,  happy  wife?" 

The  girl  did  not  reply  otherwise  than  by  the  tears  which 
now  dropped  fast  from  the  downcast  eyes,  and  after  a  brief 
pause,  he  continued  ;  speaking  at  first  with  an  effort,  but 
afterwards  proceeding  rapidly. 

"Eighteen  years  ago,  as  you  probably  are  aware,  Mr. 
Hall  was  engaged  in  business  in  a  distant  southern  city. 
He  was  then  a  very  active  and  energetic  man.  One  could 
hardly  suppose  it  possible  that,  unless  he  had  been  visited 
by  some  severe  and  protracted  disease,  so  short  a  period  of 
time  could  produce  such  a  change  in  him  as  I,  better  than 
you,  Rachel,  can  see  ;  for  I  was  then,  and  had  been,  for  a 
twelvemonth,  in  his  employ." 

"You?" 

"  Yes !  he  would  not  be  likely  to  tell  you  that ;  I  and  my 
brother,  whom  I  believe  to  be  now  dead,  as  I  have  not  heard 
from  him  for  more  than  a  dozen  years.  I  was  then  but 
fifteen,  and  though  we  had  not  the  same  father,  there  was 
less  than  two  years  difference  in  our  ages.  Neither  of  us 
resembled  his  father,  tut  both  inherited  our  mother's  looks, 
and  from  the  time,  which  was  in  early  childhood,  when  I 
had  attained  to  his  stature  and  size,  through  boyhood  and 
youth,  until  the  day  when  we  were  parted  forever,  as  I  think, 
we  were  so  strikingly  alike,  that  some  of  our  most  intimate 
associates  could  only,  by  some  article  of  our  clothing,  distin 
guish  one  of  us  from  the  other.  Indeed  very  few,  beside 
our  mother,  who  died  soon  after  we  came  into  Mr.  Hall's 


The  Light-house  Keeper.  37 

employ,  could  tell,  for  a  certainty,  which  was  Philip  and 
which  was  George. 

"  Our  employer  never  knew  one  from  the  other,  as  my 
brother,  after  we  entered  his  establishment,  always  insisted 
on  dressing  precisely  as  I  did  ;  and  on  the  night — I  am 
telling  you,  Rachel,  what  probably  no  one  in  the  world  but 
our  old  friend  yonder,  and  myself,  know, — on  the  night  when 
at  an  unusual  hour  he  went  into  his  counting-room,  he 
found  one  of  us  in  the  very  act  of  abstracting  a  large  sum  of 
money  from  his  safe,  he  could  not  tell,  I  have  often  thought 
as  unfortunately  for  the  one  as  for  the  other,  which  of  the 
two  was  before  him. 

"  He  has  not  known,  for  a  certainty,  to  this  day,  which  it 
was  ;  for  when  he  called  us,  next  morning,  before  him,  the 
guilty  one,  who  had  eluded  his  grasp  when  he  was  discovered, 
though  he  made  no  attempt  to  escape  farther  than  to  his 
boarding-house — stood  boldly  erect,  with  a  countenance 
TChich  expressed  only  astonishment  and  grief,  while  the  other 
was  trembling  with  fear  and  shame — the  very  personification 
of  guilt. 

"But  neither  of  us  denied,  or  confessed  the  attempted 
theft.  Mr.  Hall  had,  for  years  before  we  came  into  his 
employ,  been  very  kind  to  us — our  invalid  mother,  and  her 
two  fatherless  sons  ;  and  he  was  still  a  true  friend  to  us, 
though  he  told  us  that  this  was  not  the  first  time  one  of  us 
had  sought  to  rob  him  of  money. 

"  He  asked  no  questions  after  saying  this,  for  one  of  the 
boys  had  sunk  on  the  floor  at  his  feet  ;  but  he  remarked 
that  we  must  be  separated  very  widely  from  each  other,  and 
he  hoped  we  should  never  meet  again. 


38  By  the  Sea. 

"  One  of  us,  he  said,  was  a  true,  noble-hearted  boy — he 
would  not  criminate  his  brother  ;  but  the  other  must  have 
been  born  a  villain.  Time,  and  the  experience  of  this  hour, 
might,  though  he  hoped  it  would  not,  change  the  character 
of  the  former  ;  and  when  we  became  men,  it  would  be  well 
for  us,  if,  in  the  accidents  of  life,  my  brother  and  I  should 
never  jostle  each  other.  We  must  be  separated.  Philip,  he 
would  send  to  a  business  partner  of  his  in  Italy  ;  and  George 
might  remain  with  him. 

"  My  brother  went,  and  a  good  account  of  him  was  fre 
quently  sent  back  to  Mr.  Hall,  until  the  business  connection 
between  the  two  houses  was  dissolved.  Since  that  time  I 
have  never  heard  from  him,  and  my  frequent  attempts  to 
gain  intelligence  of  him  have  resulted  in  the  conviction  that 
he  is  no  longer  living. 

"  I  remained  with  my  employer  until  he  gave  up  business, 
and  when  he  came  north  he  requested  me  to  accompany 
him,  in  order  that — 

"Rachel,  when  you  told  Mr.  Hall  that  the  man  who 
wished  you  to  become  his  wife  was  one  whom  he  highly 
respected,  it  was  not  strange  that  his  thoughts  did  not  turn 
to  me  ;  for  when  he  requested  me  to  accompany  him  on  his 
return  to  the  north,  it  was  because  he  wished,  still,  to  keep 
me  under  his  surveillance  ;  for  he  has  always  been  disposed 
to  think  it  was  I  who  attempted  to  rob  him. 

"  Without  my  knowledge,  he  procured  the  appointment 
at  The  Rocks  for  me  ;  and  as  the  retirement  suited  my 
disposition  and  my  taste  for  study,  I  gladly  accepted  it. 
He  thought  I  should  be  out  of  the  reach  of  temptation  there  ; 
and  he  is  well  pleased  that  I  make  my  visits  to  the  mainland 


The  Light-house  Keeper.  39 

as  infrequent  as  I  do,  though  that  is  not  the  reason  why  I 
come  here  no  oftener. 

"  The  reason  is  because  it  is  so  hard  to  look  on  you,  so 
lonely  and  wretched  here,  and  refrain  from  asking  you  to  go 
away  with  me  to  the  pleasant  home  I  could  hope  to  make  for 
you.  And  you  now  know  why  I  am  compelled  to  be  silent. 

"  Good-night,  Eachel !" 

They  had  turned  from  the  gravel  walk  as  he  began  to  speak, 
and  had  wandered  away  through  the  garden,  the  grounds  of 
which  ran  down  to  the  water's  edge,  where,  at  the  foot  of  the 
steep,  ledgy  bank,  down  whose  side  nice,  broad  steps  had 
been  cut  into  the  solid  rock,  waited  the  little  boat  in  which 
Mr.  Aden  had  come  over  from  The  Rocks. 

They  were  standing  on  the  topmost  of  this  flight  of  steps, 
when  he  said,  "  Good-night,  Rachel !"  and  as  she  did  not 
reply,  he  turned  and  looked  in  her  face. 

It  was  lifted  up  to  the  sky,  and  a  sharp  pain  went  through 
his  heart,  when  he  saw  the  expression  of  her  countenance. 
How  brief,  even  with  the  tenderest  care,  that  young  life 
would  most  likely  be  ! 

She  was  the  last  of  a  large  family,  all  of  whose  members 
had  died  of  consumption  ;  and  the  withering  touch  of  the 
destroyer  seemed  already  to  have  been  laid  upon  her. 

After  a  little  pause,  she  echoed  his  simple  leave-taking, 
and  was  moving  away  without  farther  word,  when  he  detain 
ed  her. 

"  Eachel !"  he  said,  slowly  and  solemnly,  "  you  shall  suffer 
no  longer;  neither  will  I.  It  is  not  right  that  we  should. 
"We  both  love  that  old  man  and  he  merits  our  affection,  and 
we  would  do  much  to  make  him  happy.  But  we  will  not 


4<D  By  the  Sea. 

give  him  our  lives,  especially  when  there  are  others  who  can 
take  better  care  of  him  than  you  can  possibly  do.  I  will 
spend  this  night  in  thought,  and  in  prayer  to  Heaven. 
Perhaps  a  way  will  open  before  me.  Come  down  here  in 
the  morning,  at  daybreak,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  is  the 
result  of  my  reflections,  or  the  answer  to  my  prayers." 

The  girl  returned  with  quick  steps  to  the  house,  and  her 
companion,  after  her  form  had  disappeared  from  his  view, 
walked  slowly  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  re-entered  his 
boat,  which  a  lively  breeze  soon  bore  over  the  smooth  sea  to 
the  little  inlet  at  the  base  of  the  light-house,  where  the  fish 
erman,  young  Greyson,  was  patiently  waiting  his  return  ;  or 
rather,  impatiently,  for  there  was  a  subject  of  great  moment 
weighing  on  his  mind  that  night. 

The  Commodore  —  it  was  from  young  Greyson  he  had 
received  that  cognomen  on  his  first  arrival  at  The  Eocks, 
when  the  then  half-grown  lad  who  had  come  over  early  to 
offer  his  services  to  the  new  keeper,  in  a  fit  of  greater 
stupidity  and  familiarity  than  usual,  had  splashed  some 
drops  of  salt  water  in  Mr.  Aden's  face  —  the  Commodore 
knew  what  was  in  the  fisherman's  thoughts.  It  was  a 
subject  which  he  himself  had  suggested  to  the  young  fellow, 
who  had  been  making  him,  for  the.  last  three  months,  his 
confidant  in  his  love  affairs. 

Mr.  Aden  was  becoming  rather  weary  of  his  mode  of  life, 
and  he  had  lately  told  Greyson,  greatly  to  the  young  man's 
delight,  that  if  he  should  marry  Miss  Jones,  who  was  a 
notable  housekeeper,  he  might  come  over  to  the  island  and 
occupy  the  cabin  belonging  to  the  light-house,  renfrfree,  and 
should  be  paid  liberally  for  his,  Mr.  Aden's  board  ;  and  it 


The  Light-hoiise  Keeper.  41 

was  to  discuss  this  matter  that  he  had  waited,  after  dis 
charging  the  duties  entrusted  to  him,  during  the  keeper's 
few  hours'  absence  to  the  mainland,  for  the  return  of  the 
boat. 

"  And  what  about  Miss  Sally  to-night,  Jerry  ?"  he  asked 
pleasantly,  as  he  stepped  on  shore. 

Young  Greyson  transferred  his  forefinger  from  the  corner 
of  his  mouth  to  the  long,  straggling  lock  of  yellow  hair 
that  dangled  over  his  eyes,  and  giving  it  a  twist  and  a  pull, 
replied  that  he  .had  told  Miss  Jones  what  they  had  been  talk 
ing  about ;  but  she  had  not  fully  decided  yet  what  she  would 
do,  at  least  she  had  not  made  known  her  decision  to  him. 
If  the  Commodore  would  invite  her  over  to  the  island,  how 
ever,  and  she  liked  the  appearance  of  things  there,  she  might 
make  up  her  mind  very  soon. 

Mr.  Aden,  not  knowing  what  decision  he  should  himself 
arrive  at,  in  relation  to  his  own  affairs,  made  answer  that 
Jerry  might  call  at  the  island  next  day,  and  he  should,  very 
likely,  have  the  note  of  invitation  ready  for  him. 

But  this,  accompanied,  as  it  was,  with  the  bit  of  silver  for 
"keeping  the  light-house"  in  the  Commodore's  absence, 
made  the  perfectly  honest  and  trustworthy,  though  very 
miserly  young  fellow,  entirely  happy  ;  and  he  jumped  into 
his  boat  and  rowed  off  briskly  towards  the  mainland. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE    BBOTHEES. 

|B.  ADEN,  after  securing  his  boat,  went  up  into 
the  light-house. 

His  home  was  there. 

There  was  another  building — it  has  already  been  referred 
to — on  the  little  rocky  island,  fitted  up  comfortably  for  the 
residence  of  a  family  ;  but  he  seldom  occupied  it. 

To  the  broad  floor  at  the  foot  of  that  long,  weary  flight  of 
stairs,  he  had  taken  various  articles  appertaining  to  a  very 
primitive  housekeeping  ;  and  high  up  the  ascent  he  had 
carried  a  mattress,  his  books,  telescopes  and  maps,  and  here 
the  greater  part  of  his  solitary  life  was  spent. 

The  hours  of  the  night  were  passing  away,  but  they  were 
not  employed  this  evening,  as  they  very  frequently  were,  in 
making  astronomical  observations. 

Mr.  Aden  was  looking  away  over  the  stretch  of  water  his 
boat  had  just,  crossed,  and  trying  to  devise  some  way  in 
which  he  could  make  poor  Rachel  Boss  and  himself  happy, 
without  being  branded  by  the  old  man  whom  he  loved  and 
wished  to  honor,  as  an  ingrate  and  a  thief,  which  he  was 

sure  Mr.  Hall  would  do  if  he  sought  to  make  her  his  wife  ; 

(42) 


The  Brothers.  43 

and  thinking  of  the  past  which  the  recital  he  had  just  made 
to  Rachel  had  brought  so  vividly  to  his  mind. 

He  was  feeling  particularly  grateful  to  Mr.  Hall  to-night, 
that  he  had  been  separated  early  from  his  brother  ;  and  he 
hoped  that  they  would  never  meet  again  until  earthly 
passions  should  have  no  more  power  over  them. 

There  had  been  many  times  in  the  long,  weary  past,  when 
the  hard,  cold  man,  as  he  was  often  called,  had  repeated 
audibly  to  himself,  and  with  a  simple,  child-like  faith,  the 
words  which  his  mother  had  taught  him  in  his  earliest 
youth  : 

"  Commit  thy  way  unto  the  Lord  ;  trust  also  in  Him — and 
He  shall  bring  forth  thy  righteousness  as  the  light." 

And  he  had  felt,  at  those  moments,  that  should  he  ever 
meet  his  brother  again,  he  would  try  to  forgive  him,  and 
trust  himself  and  his  cause  in  the  hand  of  God. 

But  this  was  not  one  of  those  moments. 

It  was  one  of  those  other  seasons  which  came  more  fre 
quently  ;  usually  after  lengthened,  absorbing  thought  on 
some  subject  of  deepest  interest. 

Sometimes*  the  face  of  his  brother  would  come  up  sud 
denly  before  him,  rising  out  of  the  sea,  as  his  boat  was  glid 
ing  over  the  waves,  maddening  him  with  that  look  of  inno 
cent  astonishment  and  grief  which  Philip  knew  so  well  how 
to  assume  ;  sometimes  the  bold,  erect  figure  would  stand 
within  range  of  his  fowling-piece,  as  his  eye  was  sweeping 
the  horizon,  in  search  of  some  aquatic  bird  ;  and  again,  the 
calm,  fearless  eyes  had  met  his,  looking  up  out  of  the  dark 
ness,  as  he  had  been,  in  the  silent  night,  walking  over  those 
long  winding  stairs .  And  he  had  brought  his  oar  down  into 


44  By  the  Sea. 

the  water  with  a  violence  which  had  almost  upset  his  boat, 
and  then,  darting  swiftly  away,  listened  to  catch  the  cry 
which  he  thought  would  have  been  a  welcome  sound — the 
cry  of  a  drowning  man  ;  he  had  discharged  his  gun,  and 
stood  still,  waiting  for  a  death-shriek  to  meet  his  ear  ;  he 
had  struct  out  his  clenched  hand  into  the  darkness,  and 
bent  forward  to  hear  a  heavy  body  falling  down,  step  after 
step,  over  that  lengthened  stairway,  the  low  moans  becoming 
fainter  and  fainter,  till,  at  length,  all  should  be  dread  silence 
again. 

Pursued  as  if  he  had  not  only  intentionally  but  really  been 
guilty,  and  so  pertinaciously,  by  those  evil  thoughts,  that  he 
sometimes  fancied  he  was  a  criminal  hiding  from  justice — 
when  his  brain  was  again  unfrenzied,  he  thought  how  much 
he  needed  Rachel's  gentle  companionship  to  rescue  him  from 
the  power  which  seemed  urging  him  on  to  madness  ; — even 
more  than  she  needed  his  strong  arm  to  lean  upon.  Near 
her  he  could  trust  in  heaven. 

He  had  just  told  her  that  he  would  spend  the  night  in 
calm  reflection  and  in  prayer  for  Divine  guidance  ;  and  now, 
— he  was  busying  himself  with  his  lamps, — if  h<5  turned  his 
head,  his  overwrought  imagination  would  conjure  up  that 
hateful — yes,  hated  figure,  he  felt  very  sure  now  that  he  had 
not  forgiven  his  brother,  and  his  hand,  nerved  to  iron,  would 
be  ready  to  strike  out  into  that  phantom  face,  whose  dark, 
fearless  eyes  were  so  calmly  triumphant  in  their  expression. 

Suddenly  there  fell  on  his  quick  ear  the  sound  of  a  foot 
step,  softly  echoing  up  the  spiral  stairway.  It  was  a  quick, 
even,  but  very  peculiar  tread.  How  like  to  the  tread  of 
that  foot,  after  the  ankle  joint  had  been  partially  stiffened ! 


.    The  Brothers.  46 

His  hands  trembled  so  that  .the  oil  spilled  over  the  lamps, 
but  the  teeth  were  set  firmly  together,  and  there  was  a  look 
of  settled  determination  on  that  face  as  it  turned  to  the 
visitor,  who,  in  a  wonderfully  brief  space  of  time  had 
ascended  that  long  flight  of  steps,  and  now  stood  on  the 
topmost  stair,  glaring  so  wildly  into  the  room  that  the  figure 
might  well  have  been  taken  for  a  supernatural  one. 

But  Mr.  Aden's  wild  imaginings  all  left  him  at  the  instant 
he  recognized  that  face — left  him  to  return  no  more  forever; 
for  as  he  gazed  on  that  countenance,  he  looked,  too,  into  his 
own  heart,  and  read  the  deeply-engraven  record  there,  which 
he  had  failed  before  to  render  aright. 

He  had  forgiven  his  brother,  the  disturber  of  his  peace, 
ever  since  his  earliest  childhood,  long  ago. 

"Philip,  my  brother!"  he  said,  taking  the  newcomer's 
hand  in  both  his  own,  and  drawing  him  forward  away  from 
the  steps,  and  seating  him  upon  a  bench  at  some  distance 
from  the  stairway,  down  which  it  had  seemed  for  a  moment, 
notwithstanding  the  agility  he  had  manifested  in  his  ascent, 
he  was  ready  to  tumble. 

The  visitor  was  indeed  his  half-brother,  who  Mr.  Aden 
thought  had  died  many  years  before  in  a  foreign  land. 

He  had  very  willingly  been  led  to  a  seat,  but  he  did  not 
speak  immediately,  or  return  the  pressure  of  the  hands 
which  were  clinging  so  closely  to  his. 

He  seemed  quite  incapable  of  doing  so,  but  sat  gazing  into 
Mr.  Aden's  face  with  the  most  earnest  scrutiny,  though  cow 
ering  beneath  the  glance  which  met  his,  kindly  as  it  was  ; 
and  after  a  moment's  pause,  the  younger  brother  spoke 
again,  pleasantly,  but  with  a  slightly  troubled  tone. 


46  By  the  Sea. 

"Philip,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  though  I  perceive  your 
purpose  in  coming  here  is  other  than  a  mere  friendly  visit. 
What  do  you  wish  to  ask  of  me,  my  brother  ?" 

"Not  your  forgiveness,"  was  the  reply,  which  no  one  at 
"The  Sands"  would  have  believed  could  be  that  of  Mr. 
Maitland,  though  the  stranger  was  he,  the  slow,  cold,  mea 
sured  tones  were  so  hasty  and  eager  now,  and  sometimes  so 
nearly  incoherent,  "  not  that,  for  I  perceive  it  is  already 
mine. 

"  I  have  not  come  to  tell  you,  either,  how  well  I  appreciate, 
now,  the  sacrifice  you  made  for  me  so  long  ago,  when,  at  the 
time  of  our  separation,  you  could  so  easily  have  cleared  your 
self  from  suspicion — not  even  to  thank  you  for  it,  because 
what  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  to  do  for  me  now,  is  so 
much  greater  than  anything  you  have  done  before. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  now  not  only  to  take  upon  your 
self  the  burden  of  my  crime — it  is  crime,  now,  George,  real 
and  terrible,  though  I  dare  not  tell  you  what  is  its  nature,  or 
you  would  not  aid  me, — not  simply  to  take  upon  yourself  the 
burden  of  my  crime,  but  to  let  me  remain  here  in  your 
place,  and  flee  yourself,  like  the  wretch  which  I  am,  before 
the  man,  maddened  by  my  deeds,  who  is  pursuing  me. 

"A  slight  thing  to  ask,  is  it  not?"  he  laughed,  wildly. 
"  The  man  will  not  harm  you.  If  he  finds  you,  you  have  but 
to  show  him  your  fair  right  arm,  which  " — his  voice  sank 
now  to  a  trembling  whisper,  "  which  has  never  been  lifted, 
but  for  the  performance  of  a  duty,  or  in  an  act  of  kindness- 
He  has  seen  this  !" 

Mr.  Maitland  rolled  back  his  sleeve  and  displayed  a  large 
blood-red  spot  just  above  his  wrist. 


The  Brothers.  47 

"  You  know  this  will  not  disappear,  except  by  amputation 
of  the  arm.  But  do  not  let  him  find  you.  Let  him  think 
he  is  on  my  track,  but  do  not  let  him  find  you.  Here  is 
gold  ;  you  must  hasten.  Why,  you  are  not  hesitating, 
George !" 

At  first  Mr.  Aden  seemed  struck  dumb  with  astonishment 
and  grief ;  and  when  he  could  have  found  speech,  for  the 
remembrance  of  Rachel  Ross  suddenly  returned  to  him,  if 
he  had  made  answer  to  his  brother,  he  would  have  said  that 
so  far  from  going  into  hiding  himself,  Philip,  even,  should 
not  leave  the  neighborhood  until  he  went  to  Mr.  Hall,  con 
fessed  the  crimes  of  his  youth,  and  placed  him,  George 
Aden,  in  a  right  light  before  their  old  employer.  For 
Rachel's  sake,  Philip  should  do  this. 

"  You  surely  are  not  hesitating,  George  ?"  Mr.  Maitland 
repeated,  in  an  agonized  tone,  as  his  brother  retreated  from 
him  some  steps,  and  held  back  the  hands,  which  Philip, 
almost  sinking  at  his  feet,  sought  now  so  eagerly  to  grasp. 
"For  her  sake,  George,"  he  plead,  "my  wife's." 

His  wife  !  So  Philip  was  married,  George  Aden  thought, 
and  he  was  the  Mr.  Maitland  living  at  "  The  Sands,"  whom 
young  Greyson  had  often  spoken  of  to  him;  and  the  woman 
whom  Jerry  thought  was  so  much  like  what  an  angel  must 
be,  was  the  wife  of  the  confessed  guilty  man. 

"  For  her  sake,  George !"  he  repeated.  "  I  was  a  wild, 
bad,  dying  man  ;  but  her  love  and  tender  care  brought  me 
back  from  the  grave  and  from  perdition.  I  thought  for 
years  after  I  met  her  that  she  would,  at  length,  lead  me  to 
heaven,  but  in  a  moment  of  frenzy,  for  I  have  often  fancied 
that  I  inherit  from  my  maternal  grandfather  a  tendency  to 


48  By  the  Sea. 

insanity,  though  I  do  not  say  this  in  excuse  for  the  com 
mittal  of  that  deed — a  terrible  crime  was  perpetrated.  Only 
one,  beside  my  wife,  who  will  see  it  all  plainly  enough  now, 
only  one  beside  her,  the  wronged  man,  knows  of  the  deed, 
and  he  cannot  prove  it ;  but  he  will  kill  me  if  he  finds  me. 

"  The  way  of  escape  from  him,  is,  of  course,  as  open  to  me 
as  it  is  to  you  ;  but  I  cannot  take  my  wife  and  her  child  with 
me  ;  and  I  would  not,  if  I  could  ;  and  I  cannot  go  away  from 
her.  I  should  slay  myself,  if  I  attempted  to  do  so. 

"  She  saved  me,  to-night,  from  his  hand.  He  could  not 
touch  me,  though  he  stood  over  me  with  uplifted  arm,  and 
knew  I  was  defenceless,  and  thought  that  I  was  sleeping, 
while  her  arms  were  around  me,  even  though  her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  she  lay  insensible,  fainting  at  the  sight  of  his 
face. 

"  He  drew  back  to  the  door  of  my  chamber  and  waited  for 
me  till  I  should  have  waked  and  gone  out  in  search  of  aid  to 
arouse  my  wife  ;  but  I  dropped  from  the  window  and  came 
here  to  you,  having  learned  lately  that  you  were  here,  instead 
of  being  in  the  distant  southern  city  where  I  had  supposed 
you  to  be. 

"  I  thought  you  would  save  me,  and  you  must  do  so, 
George,  for  her  sake.  I  will  confine  myself  to  the  island  as 
closely  as  you  wish  me  to.  No  one,  not  even  she,  shall  know 
the  exchange  which  is  made  here. 

"  I  wish  to  hide  from  every  human  being,  as  I  would  hide 
from  him  ;  only  I  must  be  near  her  ! 

"  A  merchantman  goes  over  the  Bar  this  morning.  You 
will  have  time  to  reach  the  ship  while  this  man  I  am  speak 
ing  of  will  be  seeking  me  at  The  Rocks." 


The  Brothers.  49 

Yes  ;  Captain  Singleton,  Rachel's  cousin,  was  to  sail  that 
morning  for  an  Italian  port. 

Mr.  Aden  started  and  changed  countenance. 

The  temptation,  if  it  was  such,  was  too  strong  to  be  re 
sisted.  It  all  passed  before  him  in  a  moment  ;  how  the  affair 
could  be  managed,  what  happiness  it  would  bring  to  Rachel, 
and  what  real  benefit  might  result  to  Mr.  Hall,  should  he 
comply  with  his  brother's  request. 

He  would  make  her  his  wife  early  in  the  approaching 
morning,  and  they  would  immediately  go  on  board  the  ship 
of  Captain  Singleton,  whom  Mr.  Hall  would  believe  Rachel 
had  married.  She  should  write  him  a  few  lines  after  they 
had  gone  over  the  Bar  and  send  them  back  by  the  pilot,  say 
ing  she  was  with  her  husband,  on  board  the  Essex. 

Her  guardian  would  be  very  angry  at  first,  but  his  thoughts 
would  soon  turn  to  his  fatherless  neices  and  to  his  sister, 
who  was  a  good,  sensible  woman,  far  better  calculated  to 
make  the  feeble,  eccentric  old  man  happy,  and  to  devise 
proper  means  to  restore  him,  in  some  measure,  at  least,  to 
the  health  which  inactivity  and  deprivation  of  the  comforts 
of  life  had  undermined,  than  was  this  gentle,  yielding  girl. 
And  Rachel,  who  had  been  born  in  a  southern  home,  and 
who,  a  skilful  physician  had  said,  might  not  live  through 
another  winter  at  the  North,  perhaps,  in  her  happiness  in 
being  with  him,  might  find  renewed  vigor  in  the  land  to  which 
he  would  take  her. 

And  for  himself?  It  was  Heaven  which  had  formed  the 
relationship  between  him  and  his  brother.  The  tie  which 
bound  them  together  would  end  with  life  ;  and  life,  at  the 
best,  is  brief.  It  might  be  his  duty  to  shield  him  ;  and  though 


5o  By  the  Sea. 

he  shrank  from  the  deception,  perhaps,  this  time,  the  conse 
quence  to  himself  would  be  only  liberty  and  happiness  ;  for 
with  the  eye  of  Mr.  Hall  always  upon  him,  he  had  seemed  to 
himself  little  less  than  a  prisoner. 

The  result  of  his  compliance  with  Philip's  wish,  might, 
with  equal  probability,  for  he  did  not  fully  rely  on  his  bro 
ther's  words,  be  fatal  to  him, — might  be  assassination  by  the 
hand  of  the  man  whom  Mr.  Maitland  had  wronged,  or,  at 
least,  the  involving  of  himself  in  some  great  danger.  But 
for  that  he  must  trust  in  Providence  and  in  his  own  ingenuity. 

"  I  will  go,  Philip !"  he  said,  after  the  momentary  pause, 
"but,"  he  added  solemnly,  "if  you  ever  seek  me  again,  to 
shield  you  from  merited  disgrace,  or  deserved  punishment, 
may  Heaven  help  us  both !" 

Half  an  hour  after,  when  Mr.  Aden  had  made  his  brother 
acquainted  with  the  simple  duties  which  devolved  upon  him 
as  keeper  of  the  light-house,  and  how  he  could  bring  young 
Greysou  to  him  whenever  he  needed  assistance,  and  had  seen 
Mr.  Maitland  use  the  razor  about  the  thickly  bearded  face 
till  it  was  as  smooth  as  his  own,  and  the  likeness  to  himself 
came  out  on  the  broadly  shaven  visage,  almost  as  wonder 
fully  as  it  had  done  on  the  fair  countenance  of  boyhood  ;  the 
two  men  exchanged  their  clothing,  and  parted  from  each 
other. 

One,  as  he  emerged  from  the  light-house,  looked  up  to  the 
stars,  to  see  how  soon  the  earliest  morning  light  would  fall 
on  the  spire  of  St.  Mary's,  and  thinking  of  the  glad  smile 
which  would  meet  his  gaze,  and  the  gentle  words  ready  to 
fall  on  his  ear  as  he  rowed  up  to  the  stone  steps,  where  he 
had  parted  with  Rachel,  jumped  into  the  light  boat  which 


The  Brothers.  5i 

had.  not  long  before,  brought  Mr.  Maitland  over  from  The 
Sands,  and  pushed  off  from  the  island,  happy  in  the  happiness 
he  was  going  to  carry  to  one  little  desponding  heart. 

The  other  was  looking  down  from  an  aperture  high  up  in 
that  gloomy  building,  down,  he  thought,  into  the  very  depths 
of  those  dark  waters,  which,  as  he  gazed,  seemed  heaping 
themselves  up  about  him,  hemming  him  in  now  from  all 
human  companionship. 

For  a  moment  he  was  forgetful  of  his  wife  and  child,  terri 
ble  as  was  the  thought  of  separation  from  them,  and  well 
nigh  maddening  as  was  the  conviction  that  now  his  crimes 
and  his  falsehoods  would  all  be  known  to  the  simple,  but 
pure-minded,  trusting  woman. 

He  was  forgetful,  too,  of  the  danger  he  had  just  escaped, 
but  which  he  might  every  moment  fear,  as  long  as  two  lives 
lasted,  from  the  hand  which  would  never  again  be  checked 
till  its  vengeance  was  complete. 

He  wondered  if,  should  he  fling  himself  from  the  height, 
among  those  ever  rolling,  ever  requiem-chanting  waves, 
away  from  whose  neighborhood  he  had,  for  the  last  four 
years,  never  been  able  for  any  length  of  time  to  tear  himself, 
though  the  billows,  to  him,  were  always  so  voiceful  with 
accusations  and  threatenings  of  impending  doom — if  among 
those  dark  waters  he  would  meet  the  close  embrace  of  an 
arm  he  had  once  released  from  his  grasp. 

Would  he  be  clutched  by  those  long  white  fingers  which 
had  then  striven  in  vain  to  fasten  themselves  on  his — 
grappling,  in  his  death-struggle,  with  a  skeleton  form,  and 
dragged  down  to  a  depth  to  which  her  unappeased  spirit 
had  not  yet  descended  ;  down — down — to  the  music  of  a 


5  2  By  the  Sea. 

mother's  agonized  shrieksj  and  a  dying  infant's  feeble 
wail? 

In  the  cast  of  mind,  as  well  as  in  the  physical  conforma 
tion  of  the  two  brothers,  there  was  a  very  great  similarity  ; 
but  the  darkness  was  passing  away  from  the  life  of  the  one, 
wanderer  though  he  was  to  become,  as  he  looked  up  to 
Heaven,  and  guided  his  boat  by  its  sure  light  with  an  arm 
which,  it  had  truly  been  said,  had  never  been  lifted  but  in 
the  discharge  of  a  duty,  or  in  the  performance  of  an  act  of 
kindness,  strengthened  now  that  a  sweet  burden  was  so  soon 
to  be  laid  upon  it.  And,  bound  by  affection,  for  all  was  not 
wrong  in  Mr.  Maitland,  the  love  for  his  wife  shining  out  like 
a  never-setting  star,  in  his  dark  character — bound  by  affection 
and  by  fear,  firmly  as  was  Prometheus  to  his  rock,  around 
the  other  in  his  living  grave,  safe  as  if  he  had  been  in  a 
tomb,  from  his  wronged  pursuer,  though  he  knew  it  not,  the 
shadow  of  despair,  and  the  gloom  as  of  death,  were  falling. 

Safe  as  in  a  tomb  from  his  pursuer  ! 

Mr.  Aden's  boat  had  nearly  passed  out  of  sight  when 
another  had  silently  glided  into  the  little  inlet  among  the 
rocks  at  the  base  of  the  light-house,  and  a  man  who  seemed 
to  have  trodden  the  way  before,  leaped  upon  shore,  and 
entered  the  building,  for  the  door  was  still  unlocked  ;  Mr. 
Aden  always  kept  it  so. 

The  stranger  halted  for  an  instant  and  listened,  and  then 
he  went  up  over  the  many  steps  with  a  cat-like  tread  but 
with  almost  winged  swiftness,  pausing  as  he  reached  the 
highest  turning,  and  gazing  with  his  eagle  eyes,  himself 
unseen,  for  an  instant  on  Mr.  Maitland,  whose  profile,  as  he 
looked  through  the  aperture,  out  upon  the  ocean,  was 


The  Brothers.  63 

brought,  by  a  brightly-burning  lamp,  into  full  relief.  And 
then  the  intruder,  dropping  back,  still  with  perfect  noiseless- 
ness,  over  the  steps,  gained  his  boat  and  rowed  towards  The 
Sands  :  repeating  again  and  again  to  himself,  and  audibly 
as  soon  as  he  was  at  a  distance  from  the  island,  as  if  not 
quite  convinced  of  the  truth  of  his  words  : 

"  Not  he — not  the  man  I  am  looking  for  !  Strangely  like 
him,  however.  The  smoothness  of  the  face  proves  nothing  ; 
but  thrice,  within  the  sennight.  I  have  looked  on  his  right 
arm,  and  it  was  fair.  I  should  have  made  myself  sure  of  it 
again  to-night,  but  time  is  passing  ;  and  besides,"  he  added, 
looking  back  to  the  Convoy  light  as  he  neared  The  Sands — 
"  it  might  not  have  been  safe  for  me  to  approach  him  to 
night  ;  and  I  must  never  trust  myself  there  again.  That 
face  is  too  like  his.  There  are  moments  when  T  might  fling 
that  man  down  his  long  stairway  for  the  resemblance  he 
bears  to  the  murderer  of  my  wife — the  destroyer  of  myself !" 
He  struck  his  brow  fiercely  as  he  spoke. 

The  gray  dawn  was  just  appearing  in  the  east  as  the 
stranger  drew  near  the  mainland,  at  the  point  where  the  fish 
ermen  usually  brought  in  their  boats. 

He  had  not  been  deceived  in  his  survey  of  the  spot  some 
hours  before,  though  it  was  only  by  the  light  of  the  setting 
moon  he  had  counted  the  boats,  and  most  likely,  his  ear  had 
not  deceived  him.  One  was  gone,  a  little  light  pleasure-boat, 
undoubtedly  now,  for  the  wind  was  fair,  up  at  the  Port. 

The  stranger  had  been  to  the  "  anchorage  "  at  The  Bocks, 
but  the  boats  were  all  out,  all  but  that  of  the  light-house 
keeper,  and  that  was  safe  at  the  inlet ;  and  he  again,  but  now 
weariedly,  plied  his  oars,  inwardly  cursing  himself  that  he 


54  By  the  Sea. 

had  suffered  that  fair  face  to  come  between  him  and  his  in 
tended  victim,  when  he — the  man  who  had  so  injured  him, 
and  whom  he  had  for  years  past  sought,  was  so  completely  in 
his  power.  And  though  he  would  sometimes  check  his  half 
audible,  half  incoherent  ravings,  with  the  thought  that  it  was 
a  woman  and  a  wife,  as  good  and  as  loving  as  his  own  beau 
tiful  lost  one  had  been,  who  had  stayed  his  uplifted  hand,  he 
would  whisper  fearfully  : 

"  But  it  will  be  well  for  her  and  for  me,  too,  if  I  never  see 
her  face  again !" 

And  yet,  the  next  spring,  on  the  eve  of  Holy  Thursday, 
the  same  boat  came  down  again  to  The  Sands. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


BRENDICE. 

HE  name  of  the  other  family  whose  permanent 
home  was  in  one  of  the  little  fish-houses  on  The 
Sands,  was,  it  has  already  been  said,  Du  Bois. 

It  consisted  of  but  two  persons. 

They  had  come  to  the  neighborhood  on  the  fourth  year 
after  the  Maitlands  had  first  arrived  at  The  Sands  ;  the  spring 
following  Mr.  Maitland's  mysterious  disappearance. 

They  were  a  man  of  from  twenty-eight  to  thirty  years  of 
age,  though  a  careless  observer  might  have  called  him  twenty 
years  older,  and  a  child  of  three  or  four. 

The  man  was  not  only  a  stranger  in  the  vicinity,  but,  it 
was  conjectured,  had  very  recently  arrived  in  the  country, 
though  nothing  definite  could  be  ascertained  respecting  him. 
He  seemed  in  feeble  health,  and,  judging  from  the  dress  and 
habits  of  himself  and  child,  was  in  such  destitute  circum 
stances,  that  Mrs.  Brown — the  hostess  of  the  Beach  House, 
whose  husband  was  one  of  the  "selectmen"  of  the  town — 

had  scarcely  got  Mrs.  Maitland  and  her  little  boy  off  hor 

(55) 


56  By  the  Sea. 

mind,  before  she  began  to  fear  that  it  would  soon  be 
necessary  to  take  the  new-comers  to  the  almshouse. 

She  was  as  much  mistaken,  however,  in  this  case,  as  she 
had  been  in  that  of  her  boarders,  for  the  stranger  had  re 
jected  some  slight  offer  of  assistance  which  had  been  made 
him  on  his  first  arrival  in  the  neighborhood,  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  was  not  repeated  ;  and  he  very  soon  showed 
that  he  was  abundantly  able  to  take  care  of  himself. 

The  symptoms  of  physical  weakness  which  he  manifested, 
were,  it  was  observed,  after  a  time,  only  apparent  in  his 
moments,  or  rather  hours  of  mental  abstraction. 

Then  the  tall  and  delicate,  but  full-chested  and  very  erect 
figure  was  bowed  and  sunken,  and  the  shoulders  stood  out 
prominently  as  the  hands  folded  themselves  weakly  over  the 
breast ;  a  pallor  as  from  long-endured  suffering  was  seen  on 
the  browned  cheek  ;  the  face  was  elongated,  and  the  dark, 
keen,  restless  eyes  had  almost  the  fixedness  and  glassiness  of 
death. 

But  no  fisherman  in  the  neighborhood  handled  an  oar  or 
managed  a  boat  with  such  strength  and  dexterity  as  did  he, 
and  it  was  astonishing  how  soon  he  learned  where  the  best 
fishing  grounds  were,  and  what  good  luck  he  had,  both  in 
the  taking  and  in  the  disposal  of  his  fish.  Neither  his 
success,  however,  nor  his  manner,  which  was  exceedingly 
brusque  and  unsocial,  prejudiced  the  people  into  whose 
neighborhood  he  had  come,  against  him,  as  they  most  likely 
would  have  done,  but  for  an  event  which  occurred  soon  after 
his  arrival  there. 

This  was  the  fortunate  rescue  of  an  old  fisherman  and  his 
grandson  from  drowning,  at  the  imminent  peril  of  his  own 


Brendice,  5  7 

life,  the  fracture  of  an  arm,  and  the  loss  of  his  boat,  the 
purchase  of  which  had  just  been  made  ;  and  though  the  sum 
paid  for  it  had  taken  every  cent  which  the  man  had  at  his 
command,  he  yet  positively  refused  to  accept  even  the  free 
loan  of  another  until  he  was  able  to  buy  again. 

But  Du  Bois  was  not  liked  in  the  little  community, 
especially  by  the  female  portion  of  it,  on  account  of  his 
apparent  want  of  affection  for  and  his  neglect  of  his  child, 
the  little  creature  seeming  to  be  almost  entirely  uncared  for 
by  him  ;  and  for  the  manner  in  which  their,  earnest  and 
persistent  efforts  to  do  something  for  her,  were  rejected  by 
her  father. 

He  had  taken  up  his  residence  at  The  Sands,  immediately 
on  his  arrival  there,  having  hired,  for  the  season,  the  little 
fish-house,  which  he  afterwards  purchased.  Here  the  child, 
whose  name  was  Brendice,  would  be  left,  for  long  hours 
together,  and  frequently  for  the  whole  night,  alone  ;  hiding 
herself  in  the  dwelling  when  she  saw  any  stranger  approach 
ing  it ;  and,  when  no  one  was  near,  climbing  with  bare  feet 
to  the  top  of  the  highest  boulder  of  the  ledge  and  standing 
there  quite  motionless,  with  the  little  hands  clasped  tightly 
on  her  breast,  would  look  away  out  on  the  ocean. 

A  queer,  elfish-looking,  little  thing  she  was,  as  she  stood 
there,  her  figure  in  full  relief  against  the  sky  ;  the  black 
woollen  dress,  which  was  all  the  wardrobe  she  possessed, 
clinging  closely  about  her,  and  leaving  the  sun-burnt  neck 
and  shoulders,  and  the  slim  arms  and  ankles  quite  bare. 
Sometimes  a  strip  of  bright  scarlet  cloth  would  be  wound 
about  her  head,  but  usually  it  was  covered  only  by  its  mass 


58  By  the  Sea. 

of  dark,  tangled  hair,  from  out  of  which  looked  great  brown 
eyes,  pitifully  wise  and  solemn  in  their  expression. 

Her  features  were  finely-cut  and  regular.  There  was  a 
promise  of  great  beauty,  which  would  surely  come  to  her 
with  womanhood,  in  her  countenance  ;  but  the  poor  little 
face  was  dingy  and  brown  from  constant  exposure  to  sun 
and  wind,  and  it  did  not  look,  in  its  patient  though tfuln ess, 
as  if  the  smiles  or  tears  of  childhood  had  ever  passed  over  it. 
One  would  scarcely  have  known  whether  to  smile  or  weep, — 
most  likely  one  would  have  felt  inclined  to  do  both, — while 
gazing  at  the  quaint  little  face  and  figure. 

It  was  Mrs.  Maitland  who  first  learned  her  name,  and  she, 
more  than  any  other  ill  the  neighborhood,  had  wished  she 
was  able  to  do  something  for  the  little  girl,  even  after  that 
night  when  she  had  seen  her  and  her  father  walking  up  and 
down  the  beach ;  for  Du  Bois  and  his  child  were  the 
strangers  whom  her  eye  had  followed  on  that  holy  evening 
in  May,  when  she  was  listening  to  the  joyous  peal  of  St. 
Mary's  sweet-toned  bell. 

She  was  yet  in  no  situation  to  ask  the  man  to  let  her  have 
the  child,  for  she  and  her  little  boy  were  still  at  Mrs. 
Brown's.  A  part  of  the  time,  when  she  could  get  employ 
ment  at  the  fish-houses,  they  were  boarders  there,  and  a 
part  of  the  time,  they  were  servants  ;  for  Luke  was  a  robust 
little  fellow,  somewhat  inclined  to  be  mischievous,  but  good- 
hearted,  very  active  and  industrious,  and  understanding  re 
markably  well,  for  one  of  his  age,  how  much  his  industry 
could  aid  his  mother,  to  whom  he  was  greatly  attached. 

Mrs.  Maitland  was  planning,  however,  all  through  the 
summer  months,  if  her  husband  did  not  return,  to  get  a 


Brendice.  5g 

house  for  herself  and  her  boy,  in  the  autumn.  Her  desire  to 
do  so  was  strengthened  by  the  hope  that  Du  Bois,  who, 
most  likely,  would  leave  the  neighborhood  after  the  fishing 
season  was  over,  would  give  her  the  child,  for  whom  he 
seemed  to  cherish  no  affection. 

She  was  secretly  glad  that  no  one  had  yet  been  allowed  to 
do  anything  for  her,  or  had  succeeded  in  making  the  little 
creature's  acquaintance.  She  had  never  seen  her  near 
enough  to  distinguish  her  features,  though  often,  in  walking 
to  and  from  her  work,  she  had  paused  to  watch  the  child,  as, 
with  swift,  fearless  tread,  she  clambered  over  the  loose  rocks, 
or  stood,  poised  on  some  high  boulder,  looking  away  into 
the  sea. 

Du  Bois  she  had  not  chanced  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  since 
the  night  following  that  on  which  he  came  to  The  Sands. 

One  evening, — it  was  at  the  close  of  a  very  sultry  day, 
late  in  August, — Mrs.  Maitland  walked  over  to  the  dwelling 
of  the  strangers.  She  had  heard  the  fishermen  say  that  Du 
Bois'  boat  had  not  come  in. 

Jnst  after  the  sun  went  down  the  weather  had  suddenly 
changed.  A  brisk  wind  was  coming  up  from  the  ocean,  driv 
ing  before  it  a  cold,  white  fog,  so  dense  as  to  be  almost 
suffocating,  and  wetting  one  through  almost  as  quickly  as 
would  a  moderate  shower.  It  had  very  soon  obscured 
the  light  of  the  stars  and  of  the  rising  moon,  and  the  bea 
con-lights  burned  more  and  more  faintly,  until  they,  too, 
seemed  to  go  out. 

The  fishermen  said  that  the  sea  was  running  high,  and  the 
wind  would  be  likely  to  increase,  and  one  remarked  that  Du 
Bois  must  have  taken  his  boat  up  to  the  Port,  and  that  it 


60  By  the  Sea. 

was  not  probable  he  would  attempt  to  return  before  morn 
ing. 

Mrs.  Maitland  thought  of  the  lonely  little  girl,  and 
wrapping  a  thick  shawl  closely  about  her,  she  stepped  out 
unseen  by  any  one,  into  the  damp  darkness. 

At  first  she  feared  that  she  would  be  unable  to  find  the 
house  she  was  in  search  of ;  but  she  groped  her  way 
determinedly  along,  getting  more  than  one  fall,  even  with 
her  best  endeavors  to  keep  on  her  feet,  over  the  wet  pebbles  ; 
and  was  so  much  exhausted,  when  she,  at  length,  reached 
the  dwelling,  that  she  waited  to  rest  a  moment  before 
entering  it. 

The  door  was  partially  open,  and  a  faint  light,  made  by 
the  burning  of  a  little  strip  of  cloth  in  a  dish  of  fish  oil,  was 
trying  to  send  its  rays  over  the  apartment ;  but  so  feebly, 
that  Mrs.  Maitland,  as  she  glanced  into  the  room,  failed  to 
distinguish  a  single  object.  She  could  only  see  that  a 
partition  of  rough  boards  had  been  put  up  within  the  build 
ing,  cutting  off  about  a  third  part  of  it,  and  from  the  second 
room,  thus  formed,  she  heard  a  little  voice. 

She  drew  back  quickly,  and  gathering  her  shawl  up  about 
her,  began  hurriedly  to  retrace  her  steps.  Most  likely  Du 
Bois  had  returned,  she  suppossd,  or  some  other  thoughtful 
person  had  come  there,  before  herself,  to  look  after  (he  child. 
She  had  not  gone  the  distance  of  two  rods  from  the  hut> 
however,  before  the  same  voice  again  reached  her  ear,  and 
there  was  no  answering  tone. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  the  little  girl  talking  in  her  sleep,  and 
she  crept  back  to  the  door  again  and  listened.  It  was  only 


Brendice.  6 1 

the  child  who  was  speaking,  but  the  sound  of  the  voice  told 
that  she  was  wide  awake. 

"  Brendice  Du  Bois,"  she  was  saying,  with  as  much 
sternness  and  authority  as  the  little  creature  could  throw 
into  her  tones,  "  Brendice  Du  Bois,  you  are  one  bad  child  ! 
Shut  your  eyes,  and  go  to  sleep  this  minute,  or  you  will  be 
punished  severely !" 

After  a  moment's  silence  there  was  a  little  laughable 
attempt  at  a  snore  ;  and  then,  in  a  gentle,  soothing,  sing 
song  tone,  she  uttered  some  French  words  which  the 
listener,  of  course,  could  not  understand,  but  which  might 
have  been  a  translation  of — "  Rockaby,  baby,  all  on  the  tree 
top !" 

Mrs.  Maitland  stepped  softly  into  the  outer  room,  but 
there  she  paused,  and  her  face  grew  white  and  rigid  as 
marble,  as  the  child,  after  another  brief  silence,  again  went 
on,  now  in  a  low  and  pleading,  but  very  weary  and  hopeless 
tone  : 

"  Mamma,  far  away  in  the  sea,  when  will  you  come  for 
your  little  Brendie  ?  She  has  looked  for  you  many  —  very 
many  days,  dear  mamma ;  and  sometimes  she  sees  your 
pretty  eyes  shining  up  out  of  the  water,  when  the  sun  is 
looking  down  on  it ;  and  once,  when  the  wind  was  coming 
up  over  the  sea,  she  heard  you  whispering  softly  to  her;  but, 
oh !  you  spoke  so  low  she  could  not  tell  what  you  meant. 

"  It  is  cold  and  dark  here,  and  little  Brendie  is  all  alone. 
She  wants  to  be  with  you,  sweet  mamma!  Oh,  why  did  you 
not  hold  your  little  baby  more  tightly  in  your  arms,  when 
you  went  down  into  the  deep  water  ?" 

Mrs.   Maitland  heard   no   more.     She   staggered   to   the 


62  By  the  Sea. 

doorway  and  sank  down  upon  the  earth  as  soon  as  she  had 
crossed  the  threshold.  The  tide  was  still  coming  in,  and 
she  knew,  by  the  sound  of  the  waters,  that  they  had  already 
overleaped  their  usual  bounds  ;  and  a  sudden  wild  wish 
passed  through  her  inind,  that  a  mighty  wave  would  roll  up 
over  the  ledge,  and  sweep  her  away  forever  from  human  sight. 

"Whose  child  was  that  little  lonely  creature  ?  and  how  had 
she  been  made  motherless? 

The  agonized  woman  did  not  consider  that  there  was  no 
reason  why  that  terrible  conviction  which  had  seized  her, 
should  so  fasten  itself  on  her  miud — for  a  conviction  it  was — 
a  belief  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  She  did  not  under 
stand  why  the  idea,  that  she  had  at  times,  during  the  last 
few  years,  been  laboring  under  some  mental  hallucination — 
that  the  scenes  which  had  presented  themselves  to  her  mind 
at  the  moment  when  the  bodily  eyes  were  closing  to  the 
objects  about  them,  and  the  mental  vision  was  waking  to 
keener  perceptions,  might  not  be  the  simple,  vivid  recollec 
tion  of  real  events  then  passed  away  from  her  mind  forever. 
Such,  however,  was  the  fact. 

The  darkness  deepened  over  the  sea,  and  the  thick  fog, 
though  it  could  scarcely  find  its  way  through  the  many  folds 
of  the  closely-woven  shawl  in  which  she  had  wrapped  herself, 
soaked  her  straw  hat  through  and  through,  bathed  her  color 
less  face,  and  poured  heavy  drops  of  water  on  her  hair. 

She  crept  along  over  the  ledge,  so  far  as  to  be  beyond  the 
roach  of  that  little  voice,  and  then  she  crouched  down,  un 
intentionally,  for  her  own  safety  and  comfort  were  the  sub 
jects  farthest  from  her  thoughts,  beside  a  large  boulder  which 
sheltered  her  completely  from  the  chilling  wind. 


Brendice.  63 

Hours  passed  away.  She  did  not  know  how  they  came 
and  went.  She  was  thinking  of  the  petition  she  had  uttered 
so  many  times  that  day,  with  an  earnestness,  she  thought, 
she  had  never  felt  before. 

"  Let  Thy  merciful  ear,  0  Lord,  be  open  to  the  prayers 
of  Thy  humble  servants  !" 

And  her  prayer  had  been  that  her  husband  might  return 
to  her  and  his  child  ;  for  the  idea  that  he  was  not  still  living, 
singularly  enough,  had  never  occurred  to  Mrs.  Maitland  ; 
and  that  she  soon  might  have  charge  of  that  little  neglected 
girl. 

"  And  that  they  may  obtain  their  petitions,  make  them  to 
ask  such  things  as  shall  please  Thee  !" 

Things  pleasing  to  the  God  of  justice  !  to  Him  who  had 
said,  "  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth  !"  and  "  The 
sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  on  the  children." 

And  then,  through  the  dark  waves  of  agony  which  'were 
rolling  over  her,  came  the  plea,  "Through  Jesus  Christ,  our 
Lord  I" 

She  felt  herself  leaning  against  the  rock,  and  she  thought 
of  the  sweet,  comforting  words  : 

"  A  place  of  refuge,  and  a  covert  from  storm  and  wind !" 
— "  The  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land  !" 

But  they  allayed  not,  for  a  single  moment,  the  fury  of  the 
storm  which  was  sweeping  over  her.  The  burden  she  felt 
upon  her  now,  she  dared  not  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord  ;  for 
Mrs.  Maitland  had  so  dearly  loved  her  husband,  so  one  with 
him  had  she  considered  herself,  that  his  wrong  doings  seem 
ed  to  be  her  own.  His  desertion  of  her  and  her  child,  she 
had  felt  to  be  as  disgraceful  to  herself  as  it  was  to  him  ; 


64  By  the  Sea. 

and  as  she  sat  there,  in  her  agony,  she  thought  that  the  poor 
hands  which  were  so  twisting  about,  and  torturing  each 
other,  had  been  as  guilty  in  lifting  themselves  up  in 
anguished  supplication  to  her  husband,  while  he  stood  on 
the  deck  of  the  burning  ship,  as  were  his,  when  they  let  go 
their  hold  on  that  beautiful  woman  who  had  entrusted  her 
self  and  her  child  to  his  care. 

But  nature  was  at  length  exhausted,  and  Mrs.  Maitland's 
head  sank  upon  her  breast,  and  sleep  stole  over  her,  though 
the  roar  of  the  ocean,  sounding  in  her  ears,  was,  in  her 
dreams,  the  awful  thunders  of  Sinai,  and  the  Voice  at  which 
the  mountain  shook. 

When  she  was  aroused,  which  was  some  hours  after  her 
eyes  had  closed  in  sleep,  it  was  by  a  sudden,  firm  grasp  upon 
her  wrist,  a  quick  lifting  of  the  hat  which  partially  concealed 
her  face,  and  the  sound  of  some  low,  muttered  words,  whose 
meaning  she  did  not,  for  the  first  brief  instant,  fully  com 
prehend. 

They  were  understood  well  enough,  however,  when  Du 
Bois,  for  it  was  he,  the  Frenchman,  whom,  for  the  first  time 
she  had  seen  on  the  deck  of  the  burning  ship,  whose  face,  so 
frightfully  distorted  with  an  agony  of  grief  and  hate,  she 
had  seen  going  down  into  the  flame-lighted  sea,  he  who  had 
bent  over  her  couch  on  the  night  of  her  husband's  disap- 

• 

pearance,  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  and  led  her  swiftly  away  over 
the  loose  rocks,  and  the  wide  stretch  of  sand  between  them 
and  the  ocean,  for  the  tide  was  now  going  out,  not  stop 
ping  even  when  he  had  reached  the  water's  edge,  but  walk 
ing  on,  straight  down  into  the  sea. 

It  was  morning  now.  •  The  fogs  had  fled  away  before  the 


Brendice.  65 

wind,  and  that  was  quieting  itself  before  the  approach  of  the 
sun,  whose  crimson  beams  were  already  shooting  up  from  the 
horizon,  for  every  breath  that  came  up  over  the  sea  fanned 
more  and  more  lightly  the  cold,  dewy  face  that  was  turned 
towards  it. 

"  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth !" 

No  doubt  it  was  just;  and  the  wish  for  death  had  come  to 
her  more  than  once,  during  the  terrible  hours  of  the  past 
night;  but  to  die  there,  in  that  bright,  sweet  morning,  to  close 
the  eyes  forever,  just  at  the  moment  when  all  nature  was 
looking  up  and  waiting  for  the  rising  sun,  to  be  strug 
gling  and  gasping  for  breath  down  in  those  smiling  waters, 
now  rocking  themselves  to  rest,  to  be  crowned  cold  and  still 
with  those  wreaths  of  shining,  white  foam  ! 

To  die  thus,  and  for  such  a  cause ! 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  countenance  of  Du  Bois. 

He  was  looking  directly  before  him,  -far  out  into  the  sea. 
His  face  was  as  colorless  as  her  own,  and  a  cold  perspiration 
was  standing  in  drops  on  his  brow.  The  hat  had  fallen  from 
his  head,  and  the  long  dark  hair  was  hanging  in  thickly 
matted  locks  over  his  temples. 

An  appeal  for  mercy  had  risen  to  her  lips  when  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  his  countenance;  but  it  was  not  uttered,  for  it  seemed 
to  her  that  a  marble  face  could  as  soon  relax  the  stern  cold 
ness  of  its  expression  as  his.  Yet  he  seemed  not  to  be 
thinking  particularly  of  the  terrible  deed  he  was  just  ready 
to  commit;  there  was  another  and  deeper  thought  than  that 
in  his  mind. 

Mrs.  Maitland  glanced  back  over  the  beach. 

No  living  thing  was  to  be  seen  there.    It  was  the  dawn  of  the 


66  By  the  Sea. 

Sabbath.  The  fishermen  would  not  come  down  to  their 
boats  to-day,  and  the  women,  who  usually  indulged  them 
selves  in  an  extra  half  hour  of  sleep  on  Sunday  morning, 
would  eat  their  breakfast  before  opening  the  fish-houses,  and 
spreading  the  half-dried  cod  upon  the  flakes. 

She  looked  away  up  to  the  hills  rising  in  the  distance  in 
quiet,  serene  grandeur,  and  thought  how  fixed  and  secure 
they  were — as  secure  in  their  repose  as  was  the  ocean,  which 
was  deepening  around  her,  in  its  unrest. 

She  glanced  at  the  white  and  brown  dwellings  scattered 
over  the  rising  grounds,  here  in  little  clusters,  and  there 
widely  apart.  In  one  of  them,  most  likely  just  beginning  to 
open  his  blue  eyes,  and  brush  the  hair  away  from  his  face, 
wondering  where  his  mother  had  gone,  was  her  own  little 
boy.  He  would  never,  she  thought,  see  her  again  ;  and 
neither  little  Luke,  nor  any  one  else  but  he  who  was  holding 
her  wrist  in  that  vice-like  grasp,  would  ever  know  her  fate. 

And  then  she  looked  back  to  the  hut  upon  the  rocks, 
where  that  little  neglected,  lonely  child  was  so  plaintively 
calling  to  the  mother  who  would  never  come  to  her.  Back 
over  the  white  beach  and  the  stretch  of  water  which  now  lay 
between  her  and  the  dry  sand,  and  then  again  up  to  that 
unchanging  face  which  was  still  looking  steadily  far  away 
into  the  sea. 

She  had  lately  been  led  on  slowly,  but  the  water  was  now 
high  about  her.  The  last  wave,  though  the  step  of  Du  Bois 
was  still  firm,  towering,  as  he  did,  head  and  shoulders  above 
her,  had  well  nigh  lifted  her  from  her  feet,  and  still  he 
moved  on  ;  and  as  she  looked  into  his  face,  the  idea  occurred 
to  her  which  would  have  come  sooner  to  a  wiser  person,  that 


Brendice.  '  67 

the  man  who  had  her  so   completely  in  his  power,  was,  for 
the  time  being,  at  least,  a  maniac. 

But,  with  the  certainty  of  her  fate,  which  flashed  over  her 
as  if  she  had  not  before  been  so  terribly  sure  of  her  doom, 
came,  in  that  moment  of  death-like  agony,  the  withering 
thought  that  the  hand,  which  had  suffered  this  man's  fair 
young  wife  to  perish,  and  which  had  robbed  him  of  his 
wealth,  was  the  hand  of  one  in  full  possession  of  his  reason. 

A  wave  had  just  dashed  its  spray  over  her  face ! 

Another  was  coming  ; — a  great,  darkly-green,  mountain 
ridge,  it  seemed  to  her,  rising  higher  and  higher,  till  it  quite 
shut  out  the  heaven  from  her  view. 

But  not  the  Heaven  where  God  abides  ;  for  all  at  once  she 
began  to  feel  strangely  calm.  The  great  distress  and  fear 
were  all  gone  ;  and  her  stony-cold  lips  shaped  themselves  to 
a  song  of  deliverance,  though  they  gave  utterance  to  no 
audible  sound  : 

"Thy  right  hand  and  Thy  arm,  and  the  light  of  Thy 
countenance !" 

Deliverance  from  death  or  from  despair,  she  knew  not,  at 
first,  from  which  it  was ;  but  soon  she  opened  her  eyes 
again  to  the  blue  sky  above  her,  and  then  looked  away 
towards  the  west,  where,  in  the  distant '  horizon,  suddenly 
gleamed  out  a  bright  light — the  reflection  of  the  sun's  rays 
just  coming  up  over  the  waters — from  the  tall  windows  of 
St.  Mary's  ;  and  the  thought  first  came  to  her  then,  which  so 
often  occurred  to  her  afterwards,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  dis 
tant  light. 

Calling  all  the  day  long  to  goodness,  as  through  the  hours 
of  the  night,  the  beacon  had  warned  against  ill. 


68  By  the  Sea. 

At  the  moment  when  that  strange  calmness  came  to  her, 
she  had  heard  a  low,  distant  cry,  and  then  near  her  a  sound 
of  bitterest  cursing  ;  and  she  felt  herself  suddenly  lifted 
in  strong  arms,  and  they  were  carrying  her  back  swiftly  be 
yond  the  reach  of  the  waves. 

Carrying  her  back  to  life  !  Her  genses  seemed  forsaking 
her,  but  they  were  stayed,  for  a  moment,  by  the  repetition 
of  that  sound  ringing  out  over  the  water. 

It  was  the  clear  glad  cry  of  a  happy  child  ;  and  Brendice 
Du  BoiSj  with  her  long  hair  flying  about  her  head,  and  her 
little  arms  stretched  out  towards  her,  was  struggling  through 
the  waves,  exclaiming  : 

"  Mamma,  sweet  mamma !  coming  to  your  little  Brendice, 
who  has  waited  for  you  so  long,  mamma !" 

Mrs.  Maitland  felt  that  the  hands  were  loosening  their 
firm  hold  on  her,  but  they  did  not  quite  relinquish  their 
grasp  ;  for  when  she  next  opened  her  eyes  she  was  lying  on 
her  bed  in  her  boarding-house,  with  her  fingers  clasped  in  the 
chubby  hands  of  her  little  boy. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  busied  in  applying  restoratives  to  the 
exhausted  woman,  and  in  saying  : 

"Yes,  it  is  about  a  year,  now,  since  her  husband  deserted 
her,  poor  thing !  and  I  had  hoped  she  was  getting  nicely 
over  it.  You  don't  suppose  she  really  intended  to  drown 
herself,  do  you,  Mr.  Du  Bois  ?  How  fortunate  it  was  that 
you  were  just  coming  in  ;  this  is  the  third  life  you  have 
saved  since  you  came  here !  You  think  there  is  no  doubt 
about  her  speedy  recovery,  do  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Maitland  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up  into  those 
which  were  staring  down  at  her,  returning  their  earnest 


Brendice.  69 

gaze  ;  and  in  a  low,  beseeching  tone  she  murmured  the 
words  : 

"  And  forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  those  who 
trespass  against  us !" 

A  gleam  as  of  lightning  flashed  out  from  the  man's  eyes, 
though  there  was  no  look  of  insanity  in  his  countenance  now  ; 
and  she  heard  his  teeth  grinding  together. 

"  The  woman  has  not  yet  recovered  her  senses !"  he  said, 
in  a  very  slow,  measured  tone. 

Mrs.  Maitland  ".new  what  he  meant,  and  her  eyes  closed 
again,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  room. 

She  never,  for  one  brief  moment,  after,  looked  into  that 
face. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


KEVANCHE. 

[E  never  had  looked  into  that  face  again,  though 
the  years  were  passing,  and  though  neither  Du 
Bois  nor  herself  had,  for  two  days  at  a  time,  been 
absent  from  The  Sands. 

The  thought  had  frequently  come  to  her,  while  the  years 
were  going  by,  of  seeking  for  herself  and  her  boy  a  home 
distant  from  the  neighborhood,  even  after  she  and  Luke  had 
nicely  fitted  up  for  their  abode  the  little  fish-house  which 
she  had  purchased  the  second  spring  after  her  husband's 
disappearance.  But  the  fear  that  the  Frenchman  would 
follow  her,  wherever  slio  might  go,  had  always  prevented  her 
from  doing  so. 

That  Du  Bois  had  some  ot,  er  reason  for  remaining  at  The 
Sands  than  simply  to  gather  from  the  sea  the  means  for  a 
livelihood  for  himself  and  his  daughter,  she  did  not  doubt ; 
and  she  had,  sometimes,  while  her  heart  almost  ceased  to 
beat,  for  the  terrible  fear  which  came  over  her,  heard  the 
fishermen  asking  each  other  what  kept  that  stranger — for  so 

he  was  always  regarded — at  The  Sands,  when  such  a  man  as 
(70) 


Revanche.  7 1 

he  was  could  find  employment  almost  anywhere,  and  much 
lighter  and  far  more  profitable  than  his  present  pursuit. 

She  had  but  little  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  it  re 
quired  but  little  to  convince  her  that  revenge  would  be  very 
unlikely  to  die  out  in  the  heart  which  exhibited  its  emotions 
in  such  expressions  as  she  had  seen  on  that  countenance. 
His  one  great  object  in  life,  she  was  sure,  was  to  find  Mr. 
Maitland  ;  and  she  felt  that  his  eye  was  always  on  her,  with 
no  intent,  perhaps,  after  that  Sabbath  mornmg  when  he  had 
led  her  down  into  the  sea,  to  injure  her  ;  but  to  ascertain  if 
her  husband  ever  sought  to  hold  any  communications  with 
her  or  her  son. 

Feeling  that  she  could  not  escape  from  him,  she  had  at 
length  concluded  to  remain  where  she  was  ;  for  her  boy's 
sake  bearing  her  burden,  the  crushing  weight  of  which  he 
yet  knew  nothing,  though  ten  years  had  passed  since  Mr. 
Maitland  left  them,  as  patiently  as  she  could  ;  quiet,  indus 
trious,  and  sometimes  cheerful,  but  with  all  hope,  and  all  the 
freshness  of  life  gone  forever. 

Even  for  her  son  she  asked  nothing  from  Heaven  but  that 
the  knowledge  of  his  father's  crime  might  never  be  revealed 
to  him,  that  he  might  grow  up  to  be  a  good  man,  and  con 
tented  with  his  lot  in  life. 

Luke  had  never  manifested  any  inclination  to  go  away 
from  his  mother,  or  to  seek  any  other  employment  than  that 
to  which  she  was  bringing  him  up. 

Of  his  absent  parent,  memory  of  whom  seemed  to  have 
faded  away  very  quickly  from  his  mind,  though  he  was  six 
years  old  when  his  father  -had  left  The  Sands,  he  had  not 
questioned  his  mother  for  several  years  past,  for  he  had 


72  By  the  Sea. 

learned,  very  early,  that  such  inquiries  annoyed  her,  and 
Luke  was  a  loving,  tender  son.  He  was  sixteen  now,  bat  he 
had  heard  very  little  of  his  father  ;  and  he  was  as  ignorant 
of  what  his  mother  was  acquainted  with  respecting  Du  Bois 
and  his  daughter,  as  were  any  of  his  young  companions, 
who  occasionally  tried  to  make  themselves  merry  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  little  Brendice. 

The  girl  was  now  in  her  fourteenth  year,  but  she  was  so 
small  in  stature" that  those  of  her  own  age  were  accustomed 
to  regard  her  as  some  years  younger. 

The  ten  years  which  had  elapsed  since  her  coming  to  The 
Sands  had  produced  very  little  change  in  her  appearance. 
It  was,  in  the  extreme,  ludicrous  or  pitiful  still,  as  in  her 
queer,  scanty  dress,  she  ran,  with  fleet,  firm  feet,  over  the 
rocks,  or  stood  poised  upon  a  high  boulder,  looking  away 
into  the  sea. 

Mischievous,  as  he  naturally  was,  Luke  had  never  joined 
his  mates  in  their  attempts  to  annoy  the  child. 

* 

His  mother's  strict  command  that  he  should  never  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  Frenchman  and  his  daughter,  that 
he  should  never  go  to  their  dwelling,  never  suffer  his  boat, 
while  out  upon  the  watsr,  to  approach  that  of  Da  Bois,  and 
never  to  speak  to  him  unless  he  was  first  addressed,  had  been 
laid  upon  him  at  a  very  early  age  ;  and  he  had  disobeyed  her 
in  that  no  more  than  he  had  in  any  other  respect. 
•  But  at  a  distance,  the  boy  would  sometimes  watch  the 
movements,  and  listen  to  the  voices  of  the  thoughtless  chil 
dren,  when  a  dozen  or  more  of  them  came  down  to  the  beach 
after  their  hot  dusty  walk  from  school,  in  their  bathing 
dresses,  for  a  splash  in  the  water  ;  or  collected  together  when 


Revanche.  73 

the  young  girls'  work  in  the  fish-houses  was  ended  for  the 
day,  as  they  attempted  to  have  some  fun  with  the  little 
French  girl ;  and  his  laugh  often  rang  out  loud  and  clear  at 
the  complete  discomfiture  of  the  whole  party. 

The  showers  of  sand  and-  sea-shells,  and  sometimes  hand- 
fuls  of  pebbles,  when  the  children  would  get  angry  at  their 
want  of  success  in  attempting  to  "  scare  the  little  crow  from 
her  perch,"  as  Miss  Emma  Brown,  usually  the  leader  in  the 
sport,  called  it,  fell  around  her,  apparently  as  unheeded  as 
did  the  salt  spray  which  the  waves  tossed  to  her  feet.  Their 
jeers  and  hootings  never  moved  her  from  the  spot  where  she 
stood,  or  directed  her  gaze  to  the  noisy  little  crew  ;  and  the 
fleetest  among  them  always  failed  to  overtake  her  when  she 
was  bounding  over  the  rocks. 

Nor  had  Luke  ever  joined  them  in  their  endeavors,  which 
were  very  infrequent,  and  alike  disregarded  by  her,  to  be 
on  friendly  terms  with  the  girl,  any  more  than  he  had  in 
their  attempts  to  annoy  the  friendless  child,  though  he  was 
usually  the  ringleader  in  all  their  little  affairs.  Many  a  time, 
however,  when  their  play  had  become  too  serious,  had  the 
boys  returned  with  tingling  ears,  and  the  girls,  particularly 
Miss  Emma  Brown,  with  red  eyes  and  inflamed  cheeks,  to 
their  homes  ;  for  young  Maitland's  arm  was  swift  and  strong, 
and  his  pleasant  voice  could  utter  very  bitter  and  cutting 
words. 

But  although  Luke's  mother  seemed  to  be  so  very  averse 
to  holding  any  intercourse  with  the  Frenchman  and  his 
daughter,  the  wish  was  always  with  her  that  she  could  do 
something  for  the  girl. 

At  her  first  identification  of  Du  Bois  and  his  child  with 

4 


74  By  the  Sea. 

those  whom  her  husband  had  so  fearfully  wronged,  the 
desire  passed  from  her  mind.  She  then  only  wished  that 
she  could  put  the  universe  between  Herself  and  them.  After 
a  time,  however,  she  began  to  feel  that  there  was  a  distinction 
between  herself  and  her  husband  ;  that  his  guilt  could  not 
attach  itself  to  her  ;  and  then  the  desire  to  do  something  for 
Brendice  came  back  again,  and  with  such  strength  that 
many  and  many  a  time,  as  she  had  looked  upon  the  girl, 
uncared  for,  apparently,  by  any  human  being,  for  as  she  had 
grown  older  it  seemed  just  as  much  the  wish  of  Brendice  as 
it  did  that  of  her  father,  to  hold  no  intercourse  with  the 
people  among  whom. they  had  come  to  live,  she  thought 
she  must  try  to  break  the  terrible  barrier  which  separated 
her  from  this  friendless  girl,  and  take  her  to  her  heart,  and 
care  for  her,  as  never  a  mother  cared  for  her  own  child. 

Perhaps  even  at  the  risk  of  the  revelation  by  Du  Bois 
of  his  father's  crime,  to  Luke,  she  would  have  done  so  when 
she  saw  that  Brendice's  youth  was  likely  to  be  as  much 
neglected  as  her  childhood  had  been,  but  for  an  event  which 
happened  when  the  girl  was  in  her  fourteenth  year  ;  an 
event  which  Mrs.  Maitland  would  have  thought  might 
partially  close  up  the  wide  gulf  between  the  two  families, 
but  which,  instead  of  narrowing  the  chasm  between  them, 
seemed  to  render  it  entirely  bottomless. 

This  was  the  rescue  of  the  young  girl  from  a  watery  grave, 
by  Luke  Maitland. 

It  had  been  a  sweet,  cool  day  in  early  autumn,  but  a  very 
sad  and  lonely  one  to  the  girl  ;  for  Brendice  Du  Bois  had 
not  readily  and  willingly  accepted  her  bitter  lot.  When  a 
very  little  child,  she  had  striven,  instinctively,  to  win  her 


Revanche.  7  5 

father's  affection  by  sweet  smiles,  by  loving  words,  and 
attempted  caresses.  Later,  she  had  endeavored  to  over 
come  his  repugnance  to  herself  by  a  swift  obedience  to  all 
his  requirements  ;  and,  finally,  she  had  sought  to  gain  his 
respect. 

All  her  attempts,  however,  had  been  alike  unsuccessful ; 
and  that  day,  in  early  autumn,  she  had  knelt  before  him, 
and  with  clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes  had  asked  him 
if  their  existence  must  always  be  what  it  then  was,  if  there 
might  not  be  for  them  a  better  life  than  that  they  were  now 
enduring? 

She  had  been  standing  upon  the  rocks,  looking  away  into 
the  sea,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  conviction,  which 
reason,  years  before,  had  forced  upon  her — that  the  mother 
for  whose  return  to  her  she  had  so  long  watched  and  waited, 
could  never  come,  though  the  habit  of  watahing  there  would 
not  be  broken,  and  she  daily  tried  to  cheat  herself  into  the 
belief  that  she  was  watching  and  waiting  still. 

As  she  stood  on  the  rocks  looking  out  upon  the  water, 
seeing  the  shadows  of  the  cliff  and  the  ledge  stretching  out 
farther  and  farther  over  the  in-coming  waves,  she  heard  glad 
voices  and  merry  laughter  coming  down  the  beach,  and  soon 
two  young  children,  sweet,  blue-eyed,  cherry-cheeked  and 
golden-haired  little  girls,  very  simply  but  prettily  attired, 
came  bounding  over  the  sands,  breathless  in  their  eagerness 
to  find  the  white  shells  along  the  beach,  and  roguishly  seek 
ing  to  despoil  each  other  of  the  gathered  treasures. 

Following  them  at  a  little  distance  was  a  man  approaching 
middle  life,  who  apparently  enjoyed  their  sport  as  much  as 
if  he  were  still  himself  a  child  ;  now  clapping  his  hands  to 


76  By  the  Sea. 

hasten  the  flying  feet,  now  joining  in  the  triumphant  laugh, 
and  now  flinging  to  the  despoiled  and  lagging  one  such  .a 
strange  and  bright-hued  shell,  probably  tossed  up  by  the 
waves  on  a  far  distant  shore,  that  the  little  eyes  grew  round 
with  wonder  and  delight. 

Suddenly  the  children's  voices  were  hushed,  and  they 
paused  in  their  play,  and  each  turned  her  face  towards  the 
north,  whence,  faintly  stealing  through  the  quiet  air,  came 
the  sound  of  a  distant  bell ;  no  doubt  to  them  a  very 
familiar  sound,  but  strangely  sweet  and  holy  it  seemed, 
heard  here. 

Perhaps  it  reminded  the  children  of  the  color  of  the  ribbon 
with  which  their  little  frocks  were  trimmed,  and  the  wide 
band  about  their  father's  hat ;  and  they  walked  towards 
him,  each  putting  a  hand  in  his,  and  lifting  a  rosy,  but 
sobered  little  mouth  for  a  loving  kiss  ;  and  then  the  three 
walked  slowly  along  the  beach  below  the  ledge  where 
Brendice  had  now  dropped  down. 

A  stray  breeze,  filled  with  lingering  summer  sweets,  came 
over  from  the  green  wooded  hills,  and  away  in  the  east  a 
bright  rainbow  was  spanning  the  horizon. 

While  listening  to  the  distant  bell,  feeling  the  soft  air 
upon  her  cheek,  and  gazing  alternately  on  those  advancing 
figures,  and  that  bow  of  promise,  seemingly  so  like  an  angel 
of  peace,  that  sought  to  gather  the  whole  world  into  its 
loving  embrace,  emotions  such  as  she  had  never  experienced 
before  filled  the  soul  of  the  poor  girl,  as  she  crouched  there 
upon  the  ledge  ;  and  the  strange  thoughts  deepened  .  as  t'he 
words  of  the  children  and  their  father  fell  on  her  ear. 

He  was  saying  :  "  It  is  St.  Michael  and  All  Angels'  day, 


Revanche.  77 

my  darlings  ;  and  there  is  service  at  church.  A  very  sweet 
day  for  us  !  Do  you  know  the  collect,  Ellen  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  papa !"  one  little  voice  replied  ;  and  the  child 
drew  her  fingers  from  her  father's  clasp,  and  folding  her 
hands  and  bowing  her  head,  said,  very  reverently  : 

"  Oh,  everlasting  God !  who  hast  ordained  and  constituted 
the  services  of  Angels  and  men  in  a  wonderful  order,  merci 
fully  grant  that  as  Thy  holy  Angels  always  do  Thee  service 
in  Heaven,  so,  by  Thy  appointment,  they  may  succor  and 
defend  us  on  earth,  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord !" 

And  then  the  other  child  asked  quickly  : 

""Does  '  succor  and  defend '  mean  just  the  same  as  take 
care  of,  father  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear !" 

"  Well,  mamma  is  an  angel  now,  is  she  not  ?  And  can 
she  not  take  care  of  us,  just  as  she  used  to,  only  more  and 
better  care  now,  because  she  sees  and  knows  more — you 
said,  father — than  when  she  was  alive  ?  And  if  Ellen  and  I 
say  the  collect  every  day,  and  try  very  hard  to  be  good, 
wont  she  always  be  near  to  succor  and  defend  us  ?" 

"  I  think  it  is  not  wrong  for  us  to  believe  so,"  said  her 
father,  solemnly  ;  and  then  they  passed  on. 

When  the  strangers,  who  were  boarders  at  the  hotel,  had 
gone  to  a  little  distance,  Brendice  rose  up  from  the  ledge 
and  hastened  over  the  rocks,  down  to  her  home,  which  her 
father  had  just  entered  ;  and  then  she  knelt  before  him,  and 
asked  him,  as  he  had  given  her  life,  to  bless  that  life  with 
his  kindness  and  his  love. 

And  he  had  only  laughed!  and  such  a  bitter,  mocking 
laugh  it  was,  that  for  a  moment  the  girl  seemed  half 


78  By  the  Sea. 

maddened.  She  rushed  back  to  the  ledge,  and  though  the 
tide  was  now  coming  in,  ran  to  the  extreme  point  of  a  low 
rock  which  jutted  far  out  upon  the  beach,  and  flung  herself 
down  there,  weeping  as  she  had  never,  in  her  life,  wept 
before. 

Exhausted  by  her  sense  of  loneliness  and  her  grief,  and 
unobservant  of  the  rising  tide,  she  at  length  fell  into  a  most 
profound  sleep,  and  when  she  awoke  again,  the  water  was 
so  high  about  her  that  in  a  few  minutes  more  that  unblest 
life  would  have  been  ended  forever. 

But  two  young  lads,  nearing  the  shore  with  their  fishing- 
boat,  had  seen  her  peril  ;  and  Luke  Maitland,  leaving  the 
boat  to  his  companion's  care,  sprang  into  the  water,  and 
catching  the  fainting  girl  just  as  the  wave  swept  her  from 
her  footing,  bore  her  safely  to  land,  and  carried  her  in  his 
arms,  for  he  was  a  strong,  active  boy,  and  she  a  little,  light 
thing,  to  her  father's  dwelling. 

Du  Bois  was  standing  in  his  doorway  as  Luke  came  up 
with  the  exhausted  girl,  and  the  boy  observed  that  he  drew 
back  a  step  at  his  approach,  as  if  to  make  room  for  him 
to  enter  the  hut.  Bat  what  happened  afterwards,  he  never 
described  to  his  mother. 

He  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  do  so,  fully,  for  the 
words  which  passed  between  the  man  and  his  daughter, 
whose  energies  suddenly  returned  to  her  when  she  caught 
sight  of  her  father's  face,  had,  with  the  exception  of  a 
single  unfinished  sentence  uttered  by  Du  Bois,  been  in 
French  ;  and  besides,  he  was  not  disposed,  he  could  not 
himself  really  understand  why,  to  speak  of  what  he  did 
comprehend. 


Revanche.  79 

The  generous-hearted  boy,  attaching  no  value,  as  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  to  what  he  had  done,  had  never  felt  so 
happy  in  his  life  as  at  the  moment  when  he  perceived 
the  girl's  half-closed  eyes  opening  wide,  a  faint  color 
coming  into  the  thin,  white  cheek,  and  strength  returning 
to  that  nerveless  form.  And  when,  to  his  consternation, 
he  saw  Du  Bois  spring  towards  his  daughter  as  her  feet 
touched  the  floor,  and  uttering  that  one  sentence  in  Eng 
lish,  strike  at  her  with  the  heavy  stick  he  had  caught  up, 
.Luke  rushed  between  them,  and  received  the  sharp  blow 
intended  for  her,  on  his  uncovered  arms. 

"Wretch!"  the  father  had  said  to  his  child,  "you  came 
between  me  and  your  mother's  life  ;  and  this  is  the  second 
time  you  have  thrust  yourself  " 

And  then  he  added  some  words  in  a  language  unknown  to 
the  boy,  but  with  great  vehemence,  and  so  rapidly  that  it 
seemed  strange  to  him  any  one  could  understand  them. 
The  girl,  however,  who  had  appeared  surprised  at  his  at 
tempted  violence,  but  not  at  his  anger,  knew  what  he  meant, 
and  when  he  had  ceased  speaking,  she  several  times  re 
peated,  very  slowly  and  distinctly,  one  word  he  had  most  em 
phatically  uttered. 

Luke  never  forgot  that  word,  "  Revanche !"  and  when 
Brendice  turned  and  looked  on  the  countenance  of  her  de 
liverer,  the  expression  of  her  features  revealed,  plainly 
enough,  its  bitter  meaning. 

He  did  not  smile  then,  nor  did  he  do  so  afterwards — it  was 
too  pitiful  a  sight  for  ridicule, — when  he  remembered  how 
the  burning  hate  and  the  strong  desire  for  revenge  came 
out  on  that  little  pinched  face,  still  wet  with  the  salt  water 


8o  By  the  Sea. 

dripping  from  her  hair ;  and  how  the  little,  puny  arm, 
lately  so  lifeless,  was  held  out  menacingly  towards  him. 

Luke  did  not  tell  his  mother  this.  He  knew  there  was 
something  wrong  between  the  two  families,  but  had  never 
asked  what  it  was.  She  was  certain,  however,  that  more 
than  the  saving  of  a  life  had  happened,  when  her  son  re 
turned  to  her,  and  young  Jones,  who  had  been  his  com 
panion  in  the  fishing-boat,  and  had  come  up  to  the  door  just 
as  Luke  entered  it,  was  describing  to  Mrs.  Maitland  what 
he  had  intended  entirely  to  conceal ;  but  she  forbore 
asking  him  any  questions  in  relation  to  the  affair. 

She  did  not  even  inquire  how  those  ridges,  which  it 
was  strange  were  not  fractures,  came  on  his  arms — he  had 
made  no  reply  when  his  companion  asked  about  them — for 
question  on  her  part  might  lead  to  inquiries  on  his.  She 
thought  those  blows  must  have  been  accidentally  inflicted,  or 
he  would  not  be  standing  there,  with  two  pairs  of  eyes  upon 
him,  so  quietly  bathing  his  arms  in  water,  for  Luke  always 
swiftly  repaid,  and  with  heavy  interest,  any  kindness  or 
injury  done  him,  and  he  was  neither  glad  nor  repentant,  now. 

Something  had  happened,  she  was  certain ;  for  after 
young  Jones  had  gone  out,  the  lad  made  some  remark, 
more  to  himself  than  to  his  mother,  however,  and  not 
rightly  understood  by  her,  which  convinced  her,  though  mis 
takenly,  that  if  all  other  impediments  to  the  execution  of 
her  cherished  plan  in  regard  to  Brendice  Du  Bois  could  be 
removed,  the  opposition  of  her  son  could  never  be  overcome. 
And  so  the  hope  of  ever  being  able  to  do  anything  for  the 
girl,  died  in  her  heart,  at  the  hour  when  Luke  had  saved 
her  life. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


ON    THE    CLIFF. 

PON  Mrs.   Maitland's  dead  hope  no  earth,  how 
ever,  had  yet  fallen,   and  her  grief  over  it  was 
kept  fresh  by  the  secretly  dropping  tears,  till  the 
wish  was  again  brought  back  to  life. 

It  was  resuscitated  by  the  bitter,  heavy  dews  which  have 
fallen  on  so  many  parched,  stony  and  thorny  places,  where 
the  hand  of  the  great  Sower  has  seemed  to  the  dim,  human 
vision,  to  have  scattered  His  good  seed  again  and  again  in 
vain  ;  and  the  wilderness  and  the  solitary  places  have,  at 
length,  been  glad  for  them,  and  the  desert  has  rejoiced  and 
blossomed  like  the  rose.  Those  bitter  dews  which  in  the 
darkness  have  germinated  the  seeds,  forced  asunder  the 
flinty  rocks  that  the  roots  might  strike  out  wide  and  deep, 
and  though  weighing  so  heavily  upon  the  feeble  plume  that 
it  could  hardly  release  the  struggling  leaflet  from  its  embrace, 
yet  imparting,  themselves,  the  strength  they  seemed  to  be 
taking  away  ; — the  bitter  dews  of  tribulation  which  have 
ripened  to  golden  plenteousness,  the  richest  fruits  gathered 
into  the  garner  of  our  God  ! 


82  By  the  Sea. 

By  what  seemed  good  for  food,  and  was  pleasant  to  the 
eyes,  and  to  be  desired  to  make  one  wise,  "  came  death  into 
the  world,  and  all  our  woes  ;"  but  through  a  sorrow  which 
man  has  beheld,  and  saw  that  there  was  no  sorrow  like  unto 
it,  our  great  redemption  came. 

One  summer  afternoon  five  years  after  the  occurrence  of 
the  event  recounted  in  the  preceding  chapter,  Mrs.  Haiti  and 
was  walking  slowly  up  the  cliff  near  whose  summit  there  was 
now  a  well  of  pure  fresh  water.  The  well  had  been  dug  by 
the  present  proprietor  of  the  Ocean  House — the  building  she 
had  once  supposed  was  to  be  her  home. 

With  the  addition  which  had  been  made  to  it,  it  was  a  fine 
hotel  now,  and  was  so  well  patronized,  that  though  it  was 
still  early,  the  rooms  were  all  engaged  for  the  season,  and 
some  of  them  already  occupied  ;  and  pleasure  parties  were 
coming  in  from  the  adjacent  towns  very  frequently  to  spend 
the  day. 

A  party  had  come  down  to  The  Sands  that  morning. 
Young  gentlemen  and  ladies,  the  most  of  them  were,  though 
one  gentleman  was  quite  advanced  in  life. 

Their  destination  had  been  The  Rocks  ;  but  the  day  did  not 
prove  to  be  very  fine,  and  the  pleasure  boats  they  had 
expected  from  the  Port,  from  which  place  some  members  of 
the  party  had  come,  did  not  make  their  appearance  ;  and  all 
of  the  ladies  and  most  of  the  men  were  very  willing  to  remain 
where  they  were.  A  few  of  the  young  men,  however,  hired  a 
fishing-boat,  and  went  over  to  the  islands. 

The  boat  belonged  to  Du  Bois.  It  was  a  largo,  nice  one, 
and  he  had  lately  purchased  it.  He  was  just  pushing  off 
from  the  shore  with  it  himself,  for  the  first  time,  when  the 


On  the   Cliff.  83 

young  men  in  search  of  a  boat  came  down  to  the  beach. 
The  other  fishermen  had  ah1  gone  out,  earlier  in  the  morning, 
and  no  other  boat  was  to  be  had. 

It  seemed  at  first  quite  impossible  to  hire  this,  for  the 
Frenchman  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  go  out  with 
it,  though  he  had  been  quite  ill  for  some  days  past.  Even 
now,  he  was  so  unwell  that  his  daughter,  looking  after  him, 
as  he  went  silently  out  of  the  house,  and  walked  down  the 
beach,  and  began  to  loosen  the  boat  from  the  fastenings, 
wished  that  he  would  remain  on  shore  that  day,  or  that  there 
was  some  one  to  go  with  him.  She  herself  understood  very 
well  how  to  manage  a  boat,  but  she  did  not  offer  to 
accompany  her  father. 

She  knew  by  repeated  experiences  how  such  an  offer 
would  be  regarded  by  him,  for  not  only  was  the  strange  man 
always  savagely  averse  to  receiving  assistance  in  any  of  his 
labors  from  his  daughter,  but  even  her  presence,  usually, 
seemed  well  nigh  intolerable  to  him.  But  he  was  ah1  that 
Brendice  had  in  the  world,  and  though,  since  her  earliest 
recollection,  she  had  received  from  him  only  the  coldest  and 
most  neglectful  treatment,  the  glimpse  of  a  better  life  than 
her  present  hard  and  comfortless  one,  having  flashed  across 
her  mind  only  to  fade  like  a  meteor  in  the  evening  sky,  there 
was  never  an  unfilial  feeling  in  her  heart  towards  him  ; 
though  perhaps  the  emotions  of  pleasure  and  pain,  ex 
perienced  on  his  account,  were  not  so  exquisite  as  that  out 
wardly  unimpassioned  nature  was  capable  of  suffering  and 
enjoying. 

As  she  looked  after  him  from  the  cabin  doorway,  she 
perceived  that,  at  the  close  of  a  long  parley  Avith.  the 


84  By  the  Sea. 

strangers  who  had  come  down  the  beach",  her  father  quitted 
his  boat  and  allowed  the  young  men  to  step  into  it,  and 
push  it  off  from  the  shore  ;  and  she  checked  the  half  sigh 
which  would  have  escaped  her  at  the  prospect  of  having  him 
at  home  all  day.  He  had  been  unusually  severe  towards  her 
for  a  week  or  two  past,  and  her  household  cares  would  keep 
her  within  doors  through  many  hot,  wearying  hours  ;  but 
she  resolutely,  or  rather  hopelessly,  checked  the  rising  sigh, 
and  resumed  her  employment. 

Du  Bois,  however,  did  not  return  to  the  dwelling. 

An  hour  passed  away,  and  then  another,  but  he  did  not 
come  in  to  take  up  his  unfinished  work,  still  lying  upon  the 
floor  where  he  had  left  it — the  mending  of  some  fishing  tackle. 

Brendice  was  listening,  momentarily,  for  the  sound  of  his 
footfall ;  but  at  length,  while  wondering  at  his  prolonged 
absence,  a  thought  suddenly  flashed  through  her  mind,  and 
she  dropped  her  work  and  ran  swiftly  to  the  spot  where  he 
always  kept  his  boat. 

Her  fears  were  realized. 

The  old  boat  was  gone,  and  the  fishing-tackle  too,  which 
had  been  thrown  out  of  the  new  boat  when  the  young 
strangers  had  persuaded  Du  Bois  to  give  them  the  use  of  it 
for  the  day.  She  climbed  up  the  ledge,  and  looked  away  to 
the  east,  where  several  little  white  specks  were  shining  in 
the  checkering  sunlight. 

Neither  of  them  was  her  father's  old  boat,  for  he  had  taken 
the  sail  out  of  it,  as  it  was  not  suitable  for  further  use.  The 
old  boat  had  been  in  a  bad  condition  for  some  time,  quite 
beyond  repair  ;  and  he  had  lost  his  fish,  and  well  nigh  his 
life,  the  last  time  he  had  gone  out  in  it. 


On  the  Cliff.  85 

His  efforts  to  save  himself  and  the  boat  had  caused  the 
sickness  from  which  he  had  been  suffering  the  past  few 
days,  and  from  which  he  was  not  yet  entirely  restored  ;  and 
the  right  arm  which  was  fractured  some  years  before,  in  the 
successful  attempt  to  save  two  human  lives,  had  not  re 
covered  from  the  severe  strain  it  had  just  now  received. 

If  that  arm  had  been  well,  Brendice  would  have  had  no 
fear  for  his  safety,  for  her  father  was  an  uncommonly  expert 
swimmer  ;  but  now  she  looked  anxiously  over  the  water, 
very  glad  to  see  so  many  sails  dotting  its  surface,  and 
trying  to  believe  that  he  would  not  venture  far  from  the 
shore. 

It  was  some  hours  later — in  fact  the  day  was  near  its 
close — when,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  Mrs.  Maitland, 
carrying  a  small  pail  on  her  arm,  was  slowly  walking  up  the 
cliff  in  the  direction  of  the  well  near  its  summit. 

She  was  not  very  strong  now.  Her  strength  had  seemed 
to  be  failing  in  proportion  as  the  necessity  for  exertion 
diminished. 

As  she  walked  along,  very  conscious  of  her  feebleness,  she 
thought  that  Luke  would  need  her  but  a  little  longer  now  ; 
and  chided  herself  that  she  was  not  more  thankful  to 
Heaven  for  the  blessing  of  his  love  and  care,  and  for  the 
assurance,  which  was  strong  within  her,  that  he  would  never 
leave  her  as  long  as  she  lived. 

He  was  an  active  and  expert  fisherman  now.  He  had 
begun  to  handle  an  oar  at  an  early  age  ;  and  he  had  grown 
up,  seemingly  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  occupation. 

Before  a  long  time  had  passed,  his  mother  thought, — for 
Luke  had  just  completed  his  twenty-first  year, — he  would 


86  By  the  Sea. 

marry  Miss  Emma  Brown,  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Maitland's 
former  landlady. 

He  and  Emma  had  been  good  friends  from  early  child 
hood,  notwithstanding  the  many  severe  reproofs  she  had 
received  from  him.  The  young  girl  would  come  into 
possession  of  some  little  property  when  she  was  married, 
and  Luke  would  have  nothing  aside  from  his  mother's  home 
but  his  boat,  his  fine  form,  his  pleasant,  frank,  sun-burnt  face, 
and  strong,  sinewy  arms.  The  Browns  would  have  no  ob 
jection  to  the  match,  however ;  at  least,  one  of  them,  most 
decidedly,  would  not. 

Everybody  liked  Luke  Maitland. 

And  when  he  and  Emma  were  settled  down  together  in 
life,  his  mother  thought  she  would  feel  that  there  was  noth 
ing  more  for  her  to  ask  of  Heaven,  than  that  she  might  pass 
away  quietly  and  peacefully  from  earth. 

Luke  had  gone  out  early  that  morning,  and  it  was  time 
now  that  the  boats  were  in  ;  and  she  had  come  up  the  cliff 
for  a  pail  of  fresh  water  that  a  cup  of  tea  might  be  ready 
for  him  as  soon  as  his  fish  were  on  shore. 

She  set  her  pail  down  beside  the  well,  and  looked  down 
over  the  beach.  The  boats  had  come  in,  and  the  fishermen 
were  unloading  them. 

The  young  women  and  girls  at  the  houses  who  had  been 
hurrying  to  get  their  half-dried  fish  under  the  shelter  of  the 
roofs,  had  run  down  to  assist  the  men,  for  there  were  dark 
clouds,  heavily  overlapping  each  other,  here  and  there 
streaked  with  white  drifts,  coming  up  slowly  from  the  south, 
though  'the  wind  was  blowing  from  another  quarter  of  the 
heavens,  in  little  fitful  gusts. 


On  the  Cliff.  87 

It  was  a  pleasant  sight  which  met  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
down  on  the  shore,  up  which,  higher  and  higher,  came  the 
foamy  waters,  and  sweet,  mirthful  sounds  fell  on  her  ear. 
The  sounds  came  from  the  boats  which  were  now  nearly 
erupted  of  the  fish  ;  from  the  groups  of  handsomely  dressed 
people  scattered  about  over  the  beach,  the  young  girls, 
many  of  them,  in  snowy  white  frocks  and  pretty  broad- 
brimmed  hats  with  long,  bright- colored  ribbons,  busily 
gathering  bunches  of  dried  alga,  to  which  the  white  sand 
was  clinging, — to  be  shaped,  by-and-by,  into  pretty  orna 
ments, — and  searching  among  the  rocks  for  shells  and  vari 
ously  tinted  pebbles  ;  from  the  inmates  of  the  carriages  roll 
ing  over  the  hard  sand  just  above  the  water's  edge  ;  and 
mingling  with  the  voices  and  the  laughter  and  the  sounds  of 
the  ocean,  came  from  one  of  the  upper  windows  of  the  hotel, 
as  an  accompaniment,  a  sweet,  soft  strain,  from  a  rich-toned 
instrument,  touched  by  a  skilful  hand. 

The  coaches  which  had  brought  down  the  people  to  The 
Sands  that  morning  had  driven  around  to  the  front  of  the 
hotel.  The  horses  were  impatiently  pawing  the  ground,  and 
champing  their  bits  ;  and  the  people,  desirous  of  hastening 
their  departure  a  little  in  consequence  of  the  clouds  in  the 
south,  were  anxiously  waiting  the  return  of  their  companions 
who  had  gone  over  to  The  Rocks. 

They  had  promised  to  be  back  at  an  earlier  hour  than  this  ; 
but  they  were  coming  now.  The  white  sail  neared  the  shore, 
yet  the  young  men  did  not  return  the  merry  greetings  which 
reached  them. 

Mrs.  Maitland  recognized  Du  Bois'  new  boat. 

One  of  the  fish-wornen  had  told  her,  a  few  hours  before, 


88  By  the  Sea. 

that  the  Frenchman  had  lent  his  boat  to  some  young  men 
from  the  hotel,  and  had,  very  foolishly,  gone  out  fishing, 
himself,  in  his  old  one. 

The  woman  did  not  believe  he  could  keep  the  boat  afloat. 
It  had  not  been  repaired  since  he  came  so  near  losing  his 
life  in  it. 

She  drew  a  small  glass  from  her  pocket,  one  which  she 
frequently  took  with  her  up  the  cliff  when  Luke  was  out  on 
the  water,  and  looked  down  to  the  boats. 

Du  Bois  had  not  come  in,  and  Luke's  boat  was  not  there, 
either  ;  and  she  wondered  why,  when  the  young  men,  who 
had  been  over  to  The  Bocks,  stepped  on  shore,  the  fishermen 
had  left  their  work  and  collected  about  them.  Brendice 
Du  Bois  was  walking  hastily  towards  them  too,  and  the 
fishermen  were  moving  away  as  she  approached. 

Poor  Brendice !  It  was  easy  enough,  even  at  the  distance, 
to  see  that  it  was  she,  and  not  one  of  the  other  fish-girls. 
It  was  not  strange  she  was  there.  She  had  gone  down,  in 
the  absence  of  her  father,  to  see  that  the  boat  was  pro 
perly  secured,  and  to  receive  the  pay  for  its  use. 

Mrs.  Maitland  hoped  nothing  had  happened  to  Du  Bois, 
and  she  turned  her  glass  to  the  water  to  look  for  him. 

Nothing  was  to  be  seen  there,  only  away  on  the  horizon, 
a  large  ship,  outward-bound,  with  her  canvass  all  spread,  and 
a  fishing  schooner  anchored  near  The  Rocks  ;  but  then  her 
glass  was  a  small  one,  and  the  sea  was  not  very  smooth. 
He  might  be  near,  although  she  did  not  perceive  his  boat. 
Most  likely  he  would  soon  be  in. 

As  for  Luke,  she  remembered  now  that  he  had  been  talk 
ing,  for  some  days  past,  of  going  up  to  The  Port,  for  what 


On  the  Cliff.  89 

purpose  lie  had  not  told  her.  Most  likely,  she  thought,  it 
was  to  purchase  something  for  her. 

Undoubtedly  he  had  gone  that  day,  and  without  telling 
her,  in  order  that  the  surprise  in  store  for  her  might  be  the 
greater  ;  for  Luke,  manly  enough  in  his  intercourse  with 
other  people,  and  very  far  from  being  rude  and  awkward, 
was,  to  his  mother,  nothing  but  a  great  boy  still. 

Had  he  merely  been  out  fishing,  she  reasoned,  he  would 
have  returned  before  this  time,  for  Luke's  boat  always 
touched  the  beach  before  that  of  any  other  fisherman  ;  and 
sfae  looked  away  towards  the  north,  now,  to  watch  for  his 
coming. 

The  young  men  had  gone  up  to  the  hotel  and  joined  their 
party,  and  now  the  coaches  were  driving  rapidly  away.  One 
of  the  party  had  remained  behind — the  old  gentleman  before 
referred  to. 

He  had  not  come  down  to  The  Sands  that  morning  with 
the  intention  of  stopping  there  ;  but  the  sad  and  surprising 
intelligence  brought  up  by  the  young  men,  from  the  water* 
caused  him  to  change  his  plans. 

The  strangers  had  all  left  the  beach,  for  the  supper  hour 
at  the  Ocean  House  had  arrived. 

The  fish  had  been  brought  up  to  the  sheds,  to  be  cared 
for  by  the  women,  and  the  men,  all  but  two,  had  gone  to 
their  houses.  The  two  who  remained  behind  were  William 
Jones  and  one  of  the  Browns. 

Young  Brown  had  run  up  to  his  father's  house,  and 
brought  down  a  good-sized  spy-glass,  and  now  the  young 
men  stood  on  the  ledge,  and  looked  out  over  the  sea.  That 


90  By  the  Sea. 

was  not  strange,  however,  as  the  boy  was  very  proud  of  his 
glass,  and  was  always  handling  it. 

If  Brendice  Du  Bois  had  been  there,  too,  on  the  ledge, 
looking  oceanward,  it  might  have  been  supposed  some 
anxiety  was  felt  for  her  father's  safety  ;  but  the  girl,  after 
seeing  that  the  new  boat  was  in  a  place  of  safety,  had  walked 
directly  to  her  home,  and  no  one  but  the  two  young  fisher 
men  were  in  sight  ;  and  now  they  put  up  their  glass,  and 
turned  away,  with  seeming  reluctance,  from  the  rocks. 

Luke's  boat  must  be  in  sight  very  soon,  his  mother 
thought,  for  the  sun  was  now  almost  down. 

He  would  be  sure  to  leave  N early  enough  to  reach 

home  before  it  was  quite  nightfall,  for  the  evening  would  be 
a  moonless  one,  and  the  sky  had  been  all  day  partially 
obscured  by  clouds. 

There  was  another  reason  why  the  young  fisherman  should 
have  hastened  his  return,  which  his  mother,  though  she  had 
always  lived  by  the  sea,  did  not  perceive. 

The  coming  night  would  be  a  very  wild  and  fearful  one, 
for  a  terrible  tempest  had  wrapped  itself  up  in  that  dark 
sheet  that  stretched  along  the  southern  horizon. 

It  was,  slowly  enough  now,  opening  its  heavy  folds,  but 
the  wind  would  soon  shake  out  its  plaitings,  and  hang  it 
like  a  dark  pall  over  the  sky.  The  wind  was  from  the  north 
now,  gusty,  but  not  veering. 

Luke's  light  boat  would  glide  swiftly  over  the  water. 

"When  he  came  near  the  cliff,  he  would  be  sure  to  turn  his 
pleasant  face  upward  to  see  if  his  mother  was  watching  for 
him,  and  she  was  glad  she  had  happened  to  put  on,  that 
afternoon,  the  dress  he  liked  best. 


On  the   Cliff.  91 

A  very  plain  and  inexpensive  one  it  was  ;  but  the  pretty 
delicate  purple  muslin,  with  the  little  frilling  of  the  same 
material  about  the  neck  and  wrists,  was  very  becoming  to 
the  fragile  form,  and  the  all  too  fair  face.  And  well  suited 
to  the  heavy  braids  of  golden  brown  hair, — for  she  had  laid 
aside  her  simple  bonnet  now  that  the  sun  was  down,  and  the 
strangers  had  all  gone  to  the  beach, — was  the  dainty  little 
white  lace  cap,  trimmed  with  pale  pink  ribbons,  which  Luke 
had  brought  home  to  her  on  the  day  he  was  twenty-one. 

She  was  an  old  woman  now,  he  bad  told  her,  and  he 
placed  her  before  their  little  mirror,  and  stood  beside  her, 
that  she  might  see  what  an  ancient  face  it  was,  compared  with 
his  ;  and  then  he  had  laughed  and  kissed  her,  and  said  that 
no  one  could  be  made  to  believe  she  was  not  his  younger 
sister. 

He  never  dreamed  what  made  his  mother,  sometimes,  so 
strangely  fair,  nor  why  that  deep  rose  tint  came  to  the  usually 
pale  face.  She  did  not  tell  him  of  the  dark  shadow  which 
was  always  following  her,  sometimes  with  slower,  and 
sometimes  with  more  rapid  strides,  but  ever  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer. 

She  was  silent  only  for  his  sake,  however.  The  great 
change  would  not  be  an  unwelcome  one  to  her.  She  was  so 
weary  ;  only  thirty-eight  yet,  but  oh,  so  very  weary  ! 

Dear  Luke !  she  wished  he  would  come.  It  was  a  little 
strange  that  his  boat  was  not  in  sight  yet,  but  of  course  he 
would  be  there  soon.  She  would  watch  a  few  minutes  longer, 
and  then  go  home  and  prepare  supper. 

How  cheerful  her  room  should  look  when  he  came  in  ;  as 
if  it  did  not  always  look  so !  the  clean  floor  scattered  over 


92  By  the  Sea. 

with  white  sand,  the  fire-place  filled  with  fresh  balsamic 
spruce  boughs  and  sweet  ferns,  which  Luke  had  gone  among 
the  hills  to  bring  home  to  his  mother  ;  the  windows  curtained 
with  blossoming  rose  trees,  and  dark-leaved,  hardy  vines, 
growing  in  the  boxes  of  earth  placed  beneath  them  ;  and  the 
sea-shells,  arranged  upon  the  mantle  shelf,  filled  with  soft 
mosses. 

The  table  was  already  spread  ;  nothing  was  to  be  done 
but  place  upon  it  the  viands  she  had  cooked  exactly  to  his 
liking,  and  to  make  a  Cup  of  tea  for  him. 

She  picked  up  her  bonnet  and  rose  to  go. 

How  very  still  it  was ! 

The  wind  had  ceased.  The  tide  was  washing  the  ledge 
now,  but  the  water  whispered  in  strangely  soft,  melancholy 
cadences  ; — how  like  that  whispering  seemed  to  a  smothered 
wail !  And  what  was  that  sound  vibrating  through  the  still 
air,  that  fell  so  sweetly  upon  the  ear,  and  yet  told  of  tears 
dropping  upon  the  face  of  the  dead,  and  of  farewells  mur 
mured  above  the  closing  grave  ?  One,  two,  three  ! 

"Was  St.  Mary's  bell  counting  the  years  of  a  life  just 
ended  ? 

Mrs.  Maitland  found  herself  numbering  the  throbs  which 
seemed  to  her  so  like  the  beatings  of  an  anguished  human 
heart. 

Twenty-one  I 

Her  own  heart  stood  still  when  that  distant  tolling  ceased, 
and  a  low  cry  of  agony  rose  to  her  lips  ;  but  it  was  not 
uttered,  for  her  strength  failed  her,  and  she  sank  down  upon 
the  earth. 

She  did  not  faint,  however,  for  at  that  instant  a  swift 


On  the   Cliff.  93 

breeze  swept  over  her  ;  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning  gleamed 
into  her  eyes  ;  and  what  aroused  her  more  than  these,  was 
the  sound  of  a  deep-drawn  breath  close  beside  her.  She 
had  heard  it  some  time  before,  but  had  given  it  no  though L, 
it  was  so  like  a  whispering  of  the  wind,  and  she  had  been 
thinking  so  earnestly  about  Luke,  and  looking  into  the  north 
for  his  coming.  That  momentary  weakness  passed  away  ; 
but,  from  a  strange,  undefined  fear  which  came  with  return 
ing  strength,  she  hesitated  at  once  to  lift  her  head. 

Who  could  have  come  up  the  sandy  and  pebbly  cliff  so 
lightly  that  she  had  not  heard  the  footfall  ?  and  why  had  he 
loitered  there  so  long  without  addressing  her  ?  for  shy  and 
reserved  as  Mrs.  Maitland  had  always  been,  ever  since  the 
great  grief  had  fallen  upon  her,  avoiding  all  intercourse,  even 
with  her  nearest  neighbors,  except  at  those  times — yeajs  ago 
they  were  now — when  she  had  sought  employment  from 
them,  she  was  very  kindly  and  pleasantly  regarded  by  all 
who  knew  her. 

The  desertion  of  her  husband  was  made  to  account  for  the 
great  change  which  had  taken  place  in  the  formerly  light- 
hearted,  happy  woman  ;  and  there  was  not  a  person  at  The 
Sands,  with  the  exception  of  Du  Bois  and  his  daughter,  be 
tween  whom  and  herself  there  was  a  mutual  avoidance,  who 
ever  failed  to  meet  her  with  a  friendly  smile,  and  a  word  of 
cordial  greeting. 

Perhaps  it  was  some  stranger  from  the  Ocean  House.  But 
how  could  he  have  come  there,  without  attracting  her  atten 
tion  ?  And  how  singular  it  was  that  any  one  should  have 
remained  beside  her  in  silence  for  so  long  a  time  as  she  knew 
the  person  must  have  been  there  ! 


94  By  the  Sea. 

She  thought  of  her  husband  ;  but  it  could  not  be  he,  for 
surely  Heaven  must  have  heard  that  prayer  which  had,  so 
many  times,  been  on  her  lips,  which  had  always  been  in  her 
heart  since  the  certainty  of  his  crime  had  been  impressed 
upon. her.  He  would  not  return ! 

Had  Du  Bois  crept  up  there  behind  her,  softly,  with  mur 
der  in  his  heart,  waiting  for  the  coming  darkness,  and  the 
rising  tide,  to  fling  her  from  the  height  down  into  the  ocean  ? 

She  smiled  at  herself  for  her  fear,  and  wondered,  too, 
how  she  could  have  been  so  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  that 
distant  bell  ;  and  turned  to  see  who  it  was  so  near  her  that 
the  deep-drawn  breathings  fell  so  plainly  on  her  ear. 

Brendice  Du  Bois ! 

The  bare  feet  had  come  up  lightly  over  the  pebbles  and 
the  dry,  crisp  grass  ;  and  so  absorbed  did  the  girl  seem  to  be 
with  her  own  thoughts,  as  she  stood  there  beside  the  well- 
curb,  but  not  leaning  against  it,  that  though  within  three 
yards  of  the  spot  where  Mrs.  Maitland  sat,  she  might  have 
been  supposed  to  be  unaware  of  the  woman's  presence. 

Also  watching!  but  not  looking  towards  the  north. 

Her  eyes  alternately  ran  along  the  waters  rising  higher  and 
higher  up  the  ledge,  and  fastened  themselves  on  the  thick 
cloud  which,  urged  on  by  the  now  increasing  wind,  was 
moving  heavily  up  from  "the  south;  and  sometimes  glanced 
oceanward  to  the  line  along  the  horizon  where  the  Convoy 
light  was  burning  brightly  against  the  dark  sky. 

But  for  that  labored  breathing,  the  motion  of  the  eyes,  and 
the  slight  turning  of  the  head,  the  girl  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  statue. 

Mrs.  Maitland's  hands  were  clasped   closely  against  her 


On  the  Cliff.  95 

heart,  for  it  began  to  beat  wildly,  as  she  gazed  on  that  face 
and  figure.  She  had  never  been  so  near  the  girl  before, 
never  near  enough  to  distinguish  plainly  her  features,  though 
numberless  times  she  had  watched  her  as  she  had  stood,  in 
the  same  attitude,  in  the  same  clothes  in  which  she  was  now 
standing. 

The  short,  scanty  dress  clinging  closely  to  the  body ; 
the  right  foot  advanced,  and  the  left  resting  on  the  naked 
toes  ;  the  bare  arms  pressed  tightly  to  her  sides,  and  the 
hands  clutching  each  other  ;  the  head  and  shoulders  thrown 
forward,  and  the  eyes  gazing  so  fixedly  and  untiringly  out 
upon  the  ocean. 

Mrs.  Maitland,  as  she  gazed  at  her  features,  perceived  that 
there  was  a  wonderful  likeness  between  them  and  those  of 
the  beautiful  woman  she  had  seen  on  the  deck  of  the  burn 
ing  ship,  on  that  terrible  night,  nineteen  years  ago. 

Here  was  the  same  full,  broad  forehead,  and  arching 
eyebrows,  the  straight,  handsome  nose,  and  rounded  chin,  and 
the  intellectual  cast  of  the  whole  face.  But  this  counte 
nance  wore  an  immobility  which  that  could  never  assume. 

Even  the  dark  eyes,  in  whose  depths  one  might  have 
thought  the  fiercest  passions  were  but  lightly  slumbering, 
had  in  them  only  a  look  of  wearied  hopelessness,  and  the 
fine  teeth,  from  habit  alone,  held  the  nether  lip  imprisoned 
between  them. 

It  was  sad  to  look  on  that  young  face,  which  really  was 
very  beautiful  now,  and  observe  how  little  the  girl  cared  for 
her  appearance.  » 

The  dress  was  ragged,  as  well  as  soiled,  and  the  face  and 
hands  as  dingy  as  they  were  sun-burnt,  and  the  thick,  wavy 


96  By  the  Sea. 

locks,  though  the  style  of  dressing  the  hair,  at  the  time,  was 
to  brush  it  smoothly  over  the  temples  and  ears,  and  gather 
it  into  twists  or  braids  low  in  the  neck,  had  been,  unaided, 
it  would  seem,  by  a  comb,  drawn  back  tightly  from  her  brow, 
and  piled  upon  the  top  of  her  head,  a  single  little  knot  on 
either  side  of  the  forehead,  being  rolled  up  closely  to  the 
roots  of  the  hair,  and  fastened  with  a  brass  pin. 

Poor  Brendice !  •  She  was  no  longer  now  ridiculed  as  be 
fore.  The  indifference  which  she  had  always  manifested, — 
but  which  the  keenly  sensitive  girl  had  never  felt,  for  the 
treatment  she  often  experienced, — had  wearied  those  who 
sought  to  annoy  her  ;  and  they  who  gave  her  most  thought 
now  (two  only  excepted)  regarded  her  with  but  a  careless 
pity,  thinking  that  nature  had  done  so  little  for  her,  it  was 
not  strange  her  father  wished  to  keep  her,  as  he  appeared  to 
do,  from  all  companionship. 

Even  Mrs.  Maitland,  who,  strangely  enough,  did  not  enter 
tain  the  same  opinion  of  Brendice  that  the  other  neighbors 
did,  and  feeling,  as  she  had  glanced  into  her  countenance, 
that  the  girl,  instead  of  being  possessed  of  feeble  intellect, 
had  capacities  of  no  common  order — even  she,  as  she  sat 
there  upon  the  cliff,  knowing  that  Brendice  was  looking  for 
the  father  who  might  never  return,  only  felt  very  sorry  for 
her,  and  wished  that  she  had  moved  away  from  the  spot  be 
fore  the  coming  of  the  girl. 

Luke  would  return,  very  soon,  now,  certainly  ;  and  his 
supper  must  be  ready  ;  but  somehow  she  did  not  feel  as  if 
she  could  walk  away  towards  her  pleasant  home,  followed 
by  the  eyes  of  her  who  so  much  resembled  the  beautiful 


On  the   Cliff.  97 

woman  on  the  ill-fated  ship  ;  and  she  crouched  still  lower  to 
the  earth. 

The  night  was  now  rapidly  setting  in,  hastened  by  the 
coming  storm.  The  waves  tossed  their  spray  far  up  over  the 
rocks,  and  the  roll  of  the  distant  thunder  blended  with  the 
deepening  voice  of  the  ocean. 

She  was  looking  away,  again,  towards  the  north,  but  now 
nothing  could  be  seen  distinctly,  except  when  the  vivid 
lightning  flashed  across  the  sky.  But  she  would  know  when 
he  was  coming,  for  Luke,  who  had  a  very  deep,  sonorous 
voice,  often  sang  some  merry  boat  song  when  he  was  hand 
ling  his  oars. 

He  must  have  taken  down  his  sail  before  now,  for  the  wind 
was  blowing  very  furiously,  and — 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices  coming  up  from  the  water's 
edge,  at  the  instant,  and  the  grating  of  a  boat  against  the 
rocks,  and  those  who  were  hauling  it  in  were  saying  that  it 
was  the  old  boat  belonging  to  the  Frenchman,  who  had  gone 
out  with  it,  just  before  noonday. 

Mrs.  Maitland  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  spot  where 
Brendice  had  been  standing,  and  waited  for  the  lightning. 
It  came  very  soon,  and,  with  a  crash  which  seemed  to  shake 
the  earth,  more  brightly  than  before,  and  sporting  longer 
among  the  dark,  rolling  clouds,  which  changed,  as  if  by  a 
magic  touch,  into  tossing  billows  of  brightest  flame. 

The  girl  had  altered  her  position,  and  was  kneeling,  now, 
close  to  the  sharp  edge  of  the  precipitous  cliff,  with  her  arms 
crossed  upon  her  breast.  Her  head  was  bent  forward,  as  if 
to  listen,  and  her  eyes  —  there  was  no  lack  of  expression 
in  them  now  —  were  lifted  towards  Heaven,  but  less  in 

5 


98  By  the  Sea. 

supplication,  Mrs.  Maitland  thought,  than  in  defiant  de 
spair. 

But  prayer  did  arise  from  that  spot,  from  moving,  though 
noiseless  lips ;  such  entreating  prayer,  as  would,  one  might 
have  thought,  have  set  the  gates  of  heaven  ajar. 

"We  beseech  Thee  mercifully  to  hear  us  ;  and  grant  that 
we — may,  by  Thy  mighty  aid,  be  defended  and  comforted  in 
all  dangers  and  adversities!" 

The  agonized  woman  thought  not  of  herself  nor  her  son, 
though  Luke's  voice  was  not  among  those  coming  up  from 
the  water's  edge,  and  though  the  men  were  coupling  his 
name  with  that  of  Du  Bois  ;  but  of  that  poor  girl  now, 
doubtless,  orphaned. 

The  louder  peal  of  thunder  ceased,  and  the  voices  of  the 
fishermen  were  more  distinctly  heard  ;  and  at  length  words 
fell  on  her  ear  which  recalled  her  thoughts  to  herself  and 
her  son,  and  the  moving  lips  seemed  changed  to  ice,  and  she 
wondered  if  there  was  a  heaven  above,  and  a  God  of  mercy 
there.  This  was  what  she  heard  in  disjointed  sentences  : 

The  young  men  who  went  out  in  Dii  Bois'  boat  had  carried 
too  much  wine  with  them  ;  and  some  of  them,  those  who 
knew  best  how  to  manage  a  boat,  had  partaken  of  it  so 
freely  that  their  companions  were  afraid  to  trust  it  to  their 
care,  and  therefore  they  had  hired  Luke  Maitland,  with 
whom  one  of  them  had  a  slight  acquaintance,  and  who  had 
been  fishing  near  the  islands,  to  take  it  back. 

He  had  seemed  very  unwilling  to  do  so,  because  it  belong 
ed  to  Du  Bois.  He  and  the  Frenchman,  who  also  had  been 
over  to  The  Rocks  that  day,  had  had  some  difficulty,  though 
it  was  not  known  what  the  trouble  was. 


On  the   Cliff.  99 

As  Du  Bois,  however,  had  been  gone  some  hours,  and  the 
young  men  were  so  very  anxious  to  return  to  their  friends  at 
the  hotel,  he  had  finally  consented  to  go  with  them,  taking 
his  own  boat  in  tow. 

Half  the  distance  to  The  Sands,  or  less,  had  been  made, 
when  they  came  upon  Du  Bois,  in  his  old  crazy  boat,  which 
he  was,  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  just  managing  to  keep 
afloat.  The  young  men  shouted  to  him  to  come  on  board  with 
themselves,  and  Luke  ran  alongside  as  if  to  take  him  in,  but 
when  the  Frenchman,  who  seemed  very  willing  to  do  so,  and 
was  rising  to  his  feet,  perceived  that  young  Maitland  was  on 
board,  he  drew  back  suddenly,  and  fell  on  the  side  of  the 
boat,  striking  his  arm  so  heavily,  that  when  he  sought  to 
raise  himself,  it  hung  powerless  by  his  side,  and  the  next 
instant  he  was  struggling  in  the  water. 

Luke  had  run  too  near,  they  thought,  at  the  moment, 
purposely  so  ;  and  they  were  convinced  that  such  was  the 
fact  soon  after  the  affair  was  over. 

A  fishing-boat,  with  three  young  men  from  The  Rocks,  had 
been  at  no  great  distance.  The  scene  was  witnessed  by  them, 
and  when  they  had  come  up  with  the  party  from  The  Sands 
they  all  agreed  that  Maitland  had  meant  mischief  to  the  old 
man. 

One  of  them  declared  that  he  had  heard  him,  two  hours 
before,  threaten  to  take  Du  Bois'  life.  But  it  seemed — the 
islander  said  very  fortunately  for  him, — that  he  too  had 
lost  his  own  life  in  the  attempt,  for  when  he  saw  the  French 
man's  danger,  perhaps  repenting  of  his  intended  crime,  or 
thinking  there  were  too  many  witnesses  of  the  deed,  he 
leaped  into  the  water  and  seized  the  helpless,  drowning  man 


TOO  By  the  Sea. 

firmly  by  the  collar  of  his  jacket ;  but  to  the  horror  of  the 
spectators,  Du  Bois  suddenly  twisted  himself  from  the  young 
man's  fingers,  and  with  his  left  hand  clutched  at  Luke's 
throat ;  and  then  the  water  had  closed  over  both. 

The  young  men  had  made  an  endeavor  to  save  them,  but 
a  sudden  flaw  of  wind  and  an  awkward  attempt  to  lower 
their  sail,  had  well  nigh  upset  their  own  boat,  and  two  of 
them  were  thrown  out  into  the  water,  one  of  them  narrowly 
escaping  death  ;  and  when  their  boat  was  righted  again,  and 
they  had  got  their  half-drowned  companion  on  board,  neither 
Du  Bois  nor  Maitland  were  to  be  seen  ;  and  both  their  boats 
— though  Luke's  had  been  secured  by  himself — were  drift 
ing  away. 

The  speakers  moved  slowly  away  from  the  ledge  now,  cal 
culating,  as  they  went,  the  chances  of  escape  from  drowning 
for  Du  Bois  and  young  Maitland,  and  concluding  that  there 
was  not  one  in  ten  thousand  that  they  were  either  still 
alive,  or  that  their  bodies  would  be  washed  ashore. 

The  Brown  boys,  whose  voices  rose,  at  times,  above  those 
of  the  other  fishermen,  were  very  sorry  for  Luke  ;  but  they 
wished  it  had  been  his  boat,  instead  of  that  old  thing  of 
Du  Bois,  which  had  drifted  on  shore  ;  for  undoubtedly  they 
would  have  bought  it  of  Mrs.  Maitland  for  half  its  price. 
She  would  not  have  known  its  value. 

They  would  like  to  get  hold  of  Du  Bois'  new  boat ;  and 
one  of  the  older  men  laughed  and  told  them  they  had  better 
go  up  and  see  Brendice  about  buying  it. 

And  then  some  one  began  to  speak  about  the  Frenchman 
and  his  daughter  ;  the  former,  the  men  believed,  had  been 
insane  half  his  time,  and  the  latter,  though  one  would 


On  the  Cliff.  101 

hardly  judge  so  by  her  countenance,  must  be  of  inferior 
intellect,  though  not  quite  the  idiot  she  had  once  been 
called  ;  and  to  express  his  wonder  why  Luke  Maitland,  who 
everybody  knew  was  a  good  fellow,  should  want  to  interfere 
with  Du  Bois,  as  he  had,  undoubtedly,  done,  or  those  who 
had  been  over  to  The  Eocks  would  not  have  thought  so. 
The  man  and  his  daughter  were  not  very  desirable  neigh 
bors,  to  be  sure  ;  but  then  they  had  never  troubled  anybody. 
On  the  contrary,  when  occasion  required,  he  had  been  as 
ready  to  do  a  good  turn  for  any  one  as  if  he  had  been 
brought  up  among  them. 

Another  added— the  speaker  was  the  fisherman  whose  life 
the  Frenchman  had  saved  when  he  first  came  to  The  Sands — 
that  Maitland,  with  all  his  good  qualities,  was  a  hot-headed 
fellow,  and  that,  if  he  had  quarrelled  with  Du  Bois  without 
reason,  he  had  got  no  more  than  he  deserved.  But  the  girl 
would  not  be  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  some  one  said,  and 
he  wondered  what  Du  Bois  had  done  with  the  money  he 
must  have  saved  during  the  fifteen  years  he  had  been  at  The 
Sands. 

Most  likely  he  had  invested  it  in  the  city  ; — no  !  it  was 
interrupted,  he  always  kept  it  about  him,  even  when  he  went 
out  with  his  boat.  Then,  of  course,  the  girl  would  become 
the  town's  charge,  poor  thing! 

They  rather  thought  Mrs.  Maitland  would  have  enough  to 
carry  her  through.  She  would  not  be  likely  to  hold  up  long, 
after  this  blow  had  fallen  on  her.  No  one,  it  was  hoped, 
would  tell  her  of  the  sad  affair  to-night. 

And  then  they  began  to  talk  of  the  approaching  storm, 
which,  though  it  did  not  promise  to  be  long,  would  most 


1O2  By  the  Sea. 

likely  be  the  heaviest  that  had  swept  over  the  coast  for  years  ; 
and  wondered  if  the  ship  which  had  sailed  out  of  port  that 
day,  would  put  back  into  the  harbor,  or  attempt  to  keep  on 
her  course. 

Mrs.  Maitland  listened  very  attentively  to  all  of  this. 
Even  when  the  fishermen  had  gone  to  such  a  distance  that 
she  could  only  hear  fragmentary  sentences,  and  then  simply 
disjointed  words,  she  was  still  listening,  and  conjecturing 
what  they  were  yet  talking  about ;  and  when  the  voices  failed 
entirely  to  reach  her  ear,  in  thought  she  followed  each  of 
them  to  his  home.  They  were  familiar  voices,  and  she  had 
known  who  they  all  were. 

The  young  Browns  had  gone  home  to  their  parents  and 
their  sister  ;  Jones,  to  his  maiden  aunt ;  this  man  to  his 
motherless  children,  and  that  to  his  young  wife  and  her  babe  ; 
all  to  pleasant,  happy  homes  ! 

She  had  been  looking  before  her,  when  a  flash  of  lightning 
came,  and  she  saw  that  Brendice  Du  Bois  had  disappeared, 
and  she  wondered,  in  a  listless  way,  if  the  girl  had  gone  to 
her  home,  too  ;  or  if  she  had  fallen  down  the  precipice, 
dangerously  near  the  edge  of  which  she  had  been  kneeling 
when  Mrs.  Maitland  looked  in  that  direction  shortly 
before. 

She  began  to  feel  very  tired  then,  and  thought  she  would 
rest  her  head,  for  a  few  moments,  on  the  earth,  and  sleep. 
After  an  instant  or  an  hour,  she  did  not  know  which  it  was, 
some  one  came  to  her  and  raised  her  head,  and  took  hold  of 
her  hand,  and  trying  to  lift  her  to  her  feet,  said  kindly,  but 
very  firmly  : 

"  Come,  you  must  go  home !" 


On  the  Cliff.  103 

Mrs.  Maitland  asked,  dreamily,  but  doing  the  best  she 
could  to  raise  herself  from  the  earth,  "  Is  it  you,  Emma  ? 
You  are  very  kind.  Yes,  I  will  go  home !" 

And  then  the  two  walked  away  silently,  the  woman  with 
her  aching  eyes  tightly  closed,  suffering  herself  to  be  guided 
entirely  by  her  companion,  who,  when  they  had  reached  the 
dwelling,  almost  lifted  her  over  the  threshold,  which  she 
seemed  entirely  incapable  herself  of  crossing,  and  fumbling 
about  the  room  till  she  had  found  a  couch,  placed  Mrs. 
Maitland  upon  it,  and  then  went  out,  closing  the  door  be 
hind  her. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE   MIDNIGHT  VISITOR 

IT  was  not  Miss  Emma  Brown  who  had  led  Mrs. 
Maitland  home,  and  left  her  lying  upon  her  bed 
alone,  though  she  retired  to  no  great  distance 
from  her,  and  occasionally  returned  to  her  side,  and  placed 
a  cold,  wet  hand,  softly  on  the  burning  brow. 

That  young  lady  was  in  her  chamber,  soundly  sleeping,  ex 
cept  when  an  unusually  loud  peal  of  thunder  disturbed  her. 
Then  she  would  arouse  herself,  and  have  another  brief,  but 
hearty  fit  of  crying  at  the  thought  that  poor  Luke  Maitland 
was  dead,  Luke  whose  wife  she  had  expected  she  should  be 
come. 

He  had  never  said  anything  about  it,  yet,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
then  there  was  no  knowing  how  soon  he  might,  if  he  had 
lived.  Emma  was  certain  everybody  considered  her  the 
handsomest  girl  in  the  neighborhood,  and  she  and  Luke  had 
always  been  the  best  of  friends. 

Next  Sunday  she  was  going  to  church,  and  meant  to  wear 
that  pretty  blue  muslin,  and  he  would  not  be  there  to  see  it ! 

This  thought  brought  a  fresh  burst  of  tears.     Then  she 
(104) 


The  Midnight   Visitor.  io5 

began  to  wonder  how  young  Jones  would  like  her  new  dress. 
Not  that  she  cared  a  straw  about  his  seeing  it,  for  he  had 
told  her  once  that  his  maiden  aunt  would  be  an  honored  in 
mate  of  his  house  as  long  as  she  remained  unmarried,  and 
Emma  was  sure  she  would  never  live  in  the  same  family  with 
old  Sally  Jones. 

Mrs.  Maitland  was  very  different  from  Sally,  and  Emma 
liked  her,  she  thought,  quite  well ;  but  she  felt  glad  that  her 
mother  had  not  sent  her  over  to  spend  the  night  with  Mrs. 
Maitland,  as  she,  at  one  time,  was  ready  to  do,  satisfying 
herself  with  what  the  boys,  who  had  gone  past  the  fish- 
houses,  on  their  return  home  from  the  cliff,  had  said,  that  no 
light  was  to  be  seen  at  the  dwelling. 

Most  likely  Luke's  mother  had  heard  nothing  yet  about 
her  son,  but  was  accounting  for  his  absence  by  the  belief  that 
he  had  gone  up  to  the  Port,  as  he  had  been  talking  of  doing  for 
some  days  past,  and  would  remain  there  till  the  storm  was 
over,  and  so  had  contentedly  retired  for  the  night.  And 
then  Emma  put  her  hands  over  her  ears,  to  deaden  the 
thunder  peals,  and  was  asleep  again. 

But  the  stricken  woman  thought  Emma  was  near  her,  and 
through  the  long  hours  of  that  night,  which  was  as  wild  and 
fearful  as  it  had  threatened  to  be,  the  young  girl,  who,  par 
tially  protected  from  the  storm  by  the  wide  projecting  shelf 
which  Luke  had  joined  to  the  window-sill,  for  the  little  pots 
of  rose-trees  he  had  the  past  spring  bought  for  his  mother, 
had  crowded  down  upon  the  open  window  beside  which  Mrs. 
Maitland  was  lying,  and  was  listening  to  the  words  which  came 
disconnectedly,  and  often  incoherently,  from  her  lips  ;  some 
times  giving  them  no  thought,  so  absorbed  was  she  in  her 

5* 


io6  By  the  Sea. 

own  reflections,  and  sometimes  receiving  from  them  impres 
sions  which  were  never  afterwards  effaced. 

The  mother  did  not  refer  to  her  son,  all  through  those 
wretched  hours,  either  because  the  fear,  engendered  by  the 
words  of  the  fishermen,  when  they  spoke  of  his  probable 
death,  the  fear  that  Luke  himself  had  been  the  cause  of  the 
disaster  which  had  happened  to  him  and  Du  Bois,  closed 
her  lips  to  his  name,  as  the  knowledge  of  his  father's  crime 
had  seemed,  though  only  seemed,  to  efface  his  image  from  her 
heart,  and  silenced  her  lips  forever  to  the  mention  of  him  ; 
or  else  the  blow  which  had  fallen  on  her  with  such  sudden 
ness,  had  wounded  her  so  deeply  that  she  was  unaware  where 
it  had  taken  effect ;  conscious  only,  that,  so  far  as  earthly 
things  were  concerned,  there  was  nothing  about  her  but  dark 
ness  and  desolation.  . 

It  had  been  but  a  brief  moment,  however,  that  she  had  ask 
ed  herself  was  there  a  Heaven  still  above  her,  and  a  God  of 
mercy  there  ?  Faith  had  triumphed,  in  that  moment  of  ago 
ny,  even  when  reason  was  well  nigh  overcome  ;  and,  now 
and  then,  from  out  that  mental  chaos  came  a  better  idea  than 
her  brain  had  ever  before  conceived. 

"The  waters  are  coming  up  over  the  rocks,  are  they, 
Emma  ?  Well,  they  cannot  overwhelm  us  ;  for  He,  the 
Lord,  hath  '  set  the  bounds  of  the  sea  by  an  everlasting  de 
cree.' 

"  How  the  winds  are  struggling  together !  I  think  they 
are  lifting  the  waves  up  out  of  the  ocean,  and  dropping  them 
down  upon  us  ;  but  if  our  feet  are  resting  upon  the  Eock  of 
Ages,  we  shall  never  be  moved ! 

"  The  winds  and  the  tides  may  bear  everything  else  away 


MidnigJit    Visitor.  107 

from  us,  but  never  everlasting  Love ;  and  when  there  is 
nothing  beside  for  us  to  gaze  at,  and  the  heavens  as  the 
earth  disappear  from  our  view,  then  our  sight  grows  clearer, 
and  through  the  utter  void  comes  out,  one  by  one,  the 
features  of  our  Father ;  and  without  a  distorting  medium, 
with  nothing  to  intervene  but  redeeming  love,  we  look  upon 
the  face  of  God,  and  looking  there,  we  see  all  beauty  and  all 

j°y- 

"  The  battle  with  unbelief  will  have  to  be  fought,  and  the 
victory  struggled  for,  again  and  again ;  but  the  eyes  which 
once  have  had  a  glimpse  of  that  Face,  can  never  be  blinded 
more  by  the  sight  of  human  woe !" 

One  by  one  comes  out  the  features  of  the  Father ! 

Brendice  Du  Bois  sat  crouching  beneath  the  window. 

The  aii'  within  the  dwelling,  cool  and  fresh  as  it  was,  and 
faintly  odorous  with  the  perfume  of  spruce  boughs,  and 
ferns,  and  blossoming  roses,  had  seemed  to  her  close  and 
suffocating.  The  walls  of  that  room  were  not  wide  enough 
apart,  she  thought,  to  contain  her  and  the  woman  whose 
cherished  ones  had  brought  such  misery  to  herself. 

She  was  crouching  there  to  watch  over  that  woman,  beside 
whom  no  one,  out  of  the  many  in  the  neighborhood  who 
called  themselves  Mrs.  Maitland's  friends,  had  come  to  sit 
beside  her  in  her  first  hours  of  grief  and  desolation,  excusing 
themselves  with  the  supposition  that  she  had  not  learned 
the  terrible  tale  which  was  told  of  her  son. 

Brendice  looked  up  to  the  sky,  shrouded  in  deepest  gloom, 
save  when  that  horrid  gleam  shot  across  it. 

She  saw  nothing  there  that  shaped  itself  into  a  form  to  be 
knelt  before  and  worshipped — not  one  feature  of  the  Father — 


loS  By  the  Sea. 

not  even  that  one  attribute  of  Jehovah,  first  revealed  to 
guilty  man — that  to  which  poor  human  vision,  prone  ever  to 
be  most  fascinated  by  what  most  pains  the  eye  to  gaze  upon, 
looks — Brendice  could  not  even  see  justice  there — Justice ! 

What  had  she  done  to  merit  the  bitter  return  she  always 
had,  and  always  seemed  likely  to  receive  ? 

She  had  been  cursed  by  her  father,  because,  when  a  babe 
of  only  three  months,  she  had  come  between  him  and  her 
drowning  mother,  whom  he,  angered  well  nigh  to  insanity, 
and  with  his  strength  almost  exhausted,  was  struggling  to 
save ;  the  long  clothing  in  which  the  babe  was  wrapped 
dragging  so  heavily  through  the  water  that  he  thought  it 
was  his  wife  whom  he  had  seized  and  was  bearing  towards 
the  approaching  boat,  fainting  before  it  reached  him  and  his 
burden  ;  and  learning,  only  after  long  weeks  had  elapsed, 
that  it  was  the  infant  whose  life  was  preserved. 

She  had  been  cursed  again,  because  the  little  eyes,  of  four 
years,  looking  out  upon  the  ocean,  beneath  whose  waters, 
the  child  had  been  told,  her  mother  was  sleeping,  and  from 
whose  bed  she  had  not  learned  that  mother  could  not  rouse 
herself  and  come  to  the  call  of  her  little  daughter, — had  seen 
her  father  far  down  among  the  waves,  holding  a  young  wo 
man  in  his  grasp,  and  with  a  glad  cry  prevented  the  commis 
sion  of  a  deed,  which,  though  conceived  in  a  fit  of  insanity, 
would  never  have  caused  him  a  moment  of  regret. 

And  cursed  again,  and  this  time  with  a  bitterness  which  had 
made  all  her  father's  previous  harsh  words  seem  to  her  like 
blessings,  with  attempted  blows,  and  far  worse  than  all,  with 
the  revelation  of  facts,  before  carefully  concealed  from  her, 
but  a  knowledge  of  which  had,  for  a  brief  period,  made  of 


The  Midnight    Visitor.  109 

her — a  child  of  fourteen — the  demon  he  had  himself  become. 
This  time  cursed  for  the  sole  reason  that  she  had  suffered 
her  life  to  be  saved  by  the  young  lad  so  hated  for  his  father's 
sake. 

She  had  always  been  friendless  and  alone. 

There  had  never  been  a  being  whom  she  could  look  to  but 
her  unkind,  neglectful  father, — neglectful  in  all  things  but 
one, — careless  of  her  health  and  her  comfort,  and  utterly  re 
gardless  of  her  personal  appearance,  seeming  even  to  grudge 
her  the  miserable,  scanty  attire  which  he  occasionally  brought 
home  for  her,  and  treating  her  in  such  a  manner  that  the 
people  at  The  Sands  had  lost  all  the  interest  they  had  felt  in 
her  when  her  father  first  came  into  the  neighborhood,  re 
garding  her  as  almost  an  idiot,  and  considering  her  a  fit  ob 
ject  for  public  charity. 

One  would  have  been  surprised  at  the  expression  which 
came  over  the  girl's  face,  even  while  those  bitter  thoughts 
were  surging  through  her  brain,  when  the  remembrance  of 
the  fisherman's  words  returned  to  her. 

Never  had  her  father,  for  once  in  his  life,  directed  her 
thoughts  to  the  heaven  he  had,  in  his  youth,  believed  in  and 
trusted  ;  but  the  existence  of  which  with  his  lips,  and  in  his 
heart,  he  denied,  when  his  bitter  bereavement  came. 

And  now  he  was  gone ! 

Mrs.  Maitland  had  been  talking  quite  incoherently  for 
some  time,  but  her  words  were  again  clear  and  distinct. 

Brendice,  however,  did  not  catch  their  import. 

She  heard  only  the  roar  of  the  ocean,  and  thought  that 
both  her  parents  were  there  now,  tossed  about  by  the  waves, 
and  asked  herself : 


1 10  By  the  Sea. 

"Would  the  spirits  which  had  been  so  closely  united  on  the 
earth  seek  out  and  love  each  other  again,  through  that  long 
eternity,  in  the  existence"  of  which  she  would  like  to  believe  ? 
Would  there  be  an  individuality  of  existence  in  that  eternity, 
and  would  the  employments  of  the  second  life  be  like  the 
labors  of  this, —  of  choice  and  rejection, — only  that  there 
nothing  would  be  unattainable,  that  unlimited  duration 
would  be  allowed  for  action,  and  all  needed  help  afforded  ? 

Would  not  the  good,  earnest,  but  misguided  and  hindered 
effort  here,  instead  of  being  frustrated  forever,  because  the 
exertion,  though  strenuous,  has  been  useless,  gather  new 
strength  and  deeper  wisdom  from  failure  and  defeat,  and, 
undaunted,  re-commence  there  a  life  of  noble  activity — no 
niches  there,  ready-built  for  the  statues  to  occupy,  but  every 
one  carving  out  a  place  for  himself? 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  her  mind,  the 
girl,  as  if  inaction  had  suddenly  become  intolerable  to  her, 
went,  once  or  twice,  when  the  rain  fell  less  heavily,  down 
upon  the  rocks,  from  which  the  swollen  waves  were  now  re 
luctantly  retreating ;  and,  after  a  time,  guided  by  the  fre 
quent  flashes  of  lightning,  she  extended  her  walk  to  the  sum 
mit  of  the  cliff,  where  she  stood  and  looked  away  toward  the 
Convoy  light. 

While  her  eyes  rested  upon  it,  she  suddenly  remembered  a 
strange  story  she  had  years  ago  heard  an  old  fish-woman, 
with  hushed  breath,  relate  respecting  that  singular  man — the 
lighthouse  keeper. 

Could  the  story  be  true  ?  The  woman's  companions  had 
only  ridiculed  it.  She  had  said  that  the  Commodore,  on  such 
dark,  stormy  nights  as  no  fisherman  would  venture  out  in, 


The  Midnight    Visitor.  1 1 1 

though  it  was  not  known  he  had  gone  over  to  the  Port  for 
several  years,  would  take  a  boat  and  row  towards  the  shore. 
There  was  no  conceivable  motive  for  his  doing  so,  the  woman 
admitted.  The  man  had  resided  at  the  Port  several 
months  before  he  became  the  keeper  of  the  Convoy  light, 
was  known  to  many  of  the  inhabitants,  and  there  could  be 
no  doubt  in  regard  to  his  sanity.  At  least,  he  had  dis 
charged  the  duties  of  his  post  faithfully,  ever  since  he  had 
been  there. 

The  woman  strongly  averred,  however,  that  on  one  stormy 
night  which  she  was  passing  with  a  female  friend  at  The 
Rocks,  she  had  herself  seen  him  put  out  his  boat  to  sea,  and, 
at  the  imminent  danger  of  being  swallowed  up  at  any  mo 
ment  by  the  waves,  guide  it  toward  The  Sands. 

The  story  had  not  circulated  in  the  neighborhood,  for,  as 

has  been  before  remarked,  the  inhabitants  of  H were  not 

a  gossiping  people.  It  recurred  to  Brendice  to-night,  for 
the  first  time,  since  she  had  overheard  it ;  and  she  found 
herself  wondering  if  it  were  true. 

Only  for  a  moment,  however  ;  for  her  thoughts  came  back 
speedily  to  herself,  and  her  dreary  past.  Strive  as  she  might, 
her  thoughts  would  not  anticipate  the  future.  Dark  as  that 
might  be,  she  believed  no  more  misery  could  be  in  store  for 
her  than  had  been  crowded  into  the  years  gone  by  ;  and  the 
question  arose  again  in  her  mind,  as  she  returned  to  resume 
her  watch  over  Mrs.  Maitland  : 

"  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  all  this  ?" 

Words  came,  at  length,  through  the  open  window,  softly 
and  whisperingly,  as  if  in  reply  to  her  : 

"  What  thou  knowest  not    now,  thou  shalt  know  hereafter." 


ii2  By  the  Sea. 

The  lips  closed  with  the  words  upon  them,  and  the  wearied 
woman  fell  asleep. 

The  rest  would  restore  her  to  consciousness,  Brendice 
thought.  The  storm  was  less  violent  now,  the  fierce  wind 
occasionally  hushing  itself  into  a  gentle  breeze.  If  nothing 
disturbed  her,  she  would  probably  sleep  till  morning. 

The  girl  rose  to  return  to  her  own  home,  parting  the  vines 
which  the  wind  had  not  yet  entirely  torn  from  the  windows, 
and  leaning  so  far  forward  that  her  face  was  quite  within  the 
room,  to  assure  herself,  before  going,  that  Mrs.  Maitland's 
repose  was  quiet  and  profound. 

As  she  listened  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  breathing,  which 
was  very  feeble  for  healthful  slumber,  she  fancied  she  heard 
a  faint  footfall  within  the  apartment.  Only  fancied  it,  of 
course  ;  for  who  could  come  there,  at  that  hour  ? 

Perhaps  Luke  had  escaped  death  and  had  returned ;  but 
most  likely  the  sound  was  only  the  sweeping  of  the  vines 
against  the  window  opposite  that  through  which  she  was 
looking. 

She  was  about  to  move  away,  when  a  flash  of  lightning 
filled  the  apartment  with  noonday  brightness,  for  the  door 
which  opened  from  the  south,  and  which  Brendice  was  sure 
she  had  firmly  closed  to  keep  out  the  furious  wind,  was  now 
swung  widely  open ;  and  her  eyes,  lifted  in  the  direction 
of  the  couch  on  which  Mrs.  Maitland  was  lying,  though  half 
blinded  by  the  sudden  brilliancy,  took  in  the  figure  of  a  man. 
He  was  leaning  over  the  sleeping  woman,  though  his  face  was 
turned  towards  the  window  where  she  stood. 

The  form  was  not  Luke  Maitland's,  neither  was  it  that  of 
any  one  she  had  ever  seen  before. 


The  Midnight   Visitor.  1 1 3 

She  dashed  the  rose  trees  from  the  window-sill  and  flung 
herself  into  the  room,  feeling  something  rush  past  her, 
towards  the  open  door,  as  she  sprang  forward  to  the  bedside. 
She  did  not  look  after  the  retreating  figure  ;  she  would  have 
learned  nothing  of  it  had  she  done  so,  for  the  night  was  still 
impenetrably  dark,  save  when  those  lightning  flashes  shot 
across  the  sky. 

She  did  not  care  to  know  who  it  was  ;  though,  most  likely, 
she  thought,  it  was  some  one  from  the  hotel.  The  fishermen 
had  said,  when  down  on  the  ledge,  that  one  of  the  pleasure 
party  at  the  Ocean  House,  the  preceding  day — an  old  gentle 
man — had  remained  behind  when  his  companions  returned 
to  their  homes.  Perhaps  he  was  feeling  some  anxiety  in 
relation  to  the  mother  whose  son  had  lost  his  life  while  in 
the  employment  of  his  friends.  Perhaps  the  intruder  had 
come  to  the  grief-stricken  woman  with  some  pleasant  news. 

But  whoever  he  might  be,  or  whatever  was  his  business 
there,  Brendice  knew  that  Mrs.  Maitland  must  have  quiet 
sleep,  now,  till  morning. 

Fortunately,  the  slight  noises  near  her  had  failed  to  dis 
turb  her  repose,  and  not  until  the  faint  streaks  of  returning 
light  came  out  in  the  now  clear,  eastern  sky,  did  Brendice 
quit  her  post,  which,  for  the  last  three  hours,  was  close  be 
side  the  sleeping  woman. 

Then  she  rose  with  a  low,  weary  sigh,  and  walked  out  of 
the  room,  down  over  the  ledge,  along  the  white  beach,  very 
slowly,  and  looking  away,  out  over  the  sea,  to  a  little  dark 
line  along  the  horizon,  beyond  which  the  sun  would  soon 
rise. 

That  low  line  was  The  Eocks,  and  the  Convoy  light  was 


1 14  By  the  Sea. 

still  burning,  though  faintly  now,  in  the  morning's  lessen 
ing  twilight.  Somewhere  between  that  beacon-light  and  the 
spot  where  she  stood,  Brendice  thought  her  father  had  sunk 
down  in  death  beneath  the  waves. 

She  had  heard  the  old  fisherman,  whose  life  he  had  saved, 
many  times  say,  that  at  the  moment  he  had  supposed  would 
be  the  last  of  his  earthly  existence,  all  the  events  of  his  long 
life  had  passed  in  rapid  succession  before  him.  She  wonder 
ed  if  her  father  thought  of  her  in  that  last  moment  of  agony, 
and  with  any  emotion  of  sorrow  for  her  comfortless  youth, 
and  pity  for  her  hopeless  womanhood. 

Perhaps,  at  the  very  last,  he  ceased  to  regard  as  crime, 
what  he  had  so  long  blamed  her  for  ;  or  had  forgiven  her, 
as  she  now,  with  the  tears  which  were  beginning  to  fall,  for 
the  first  time  since  she  had  heard  the  fisherman  hauling  up 
his  empty  boat  over  the  ledge,  was  forgiving  him. 

The  tears  did  Brendice  good  ;  as  much  good  as  her  watch 
through  the  long  nighfc,  over  Mrs.  Maitland,  had  done,  and 
as  her  slow  walk  along  the  silent  beach,  was  doing  her.  And 
the  dark  thought,  so  like  a  phantom,  which  had  cast  its 
gloomy  shadow  over  her,  more  than  once  during  the  past 
night,  fled  away,  forever,  as  if  terrified  by  the  light  of  that 
soft,  sweet  morning.  Perhaps  it  was  exorcised  by  the  re 
membrance  of  those  words  Mrs.  Maitland  had  uttered,  and 
which  seemed  to  be  voiced  by  everything  about  her  :  "  What 
thou  knowest  not  now,  thou  shalt  know  hereafter  !" 

Besides,  if  there  is  a  life  after  this  is  ended — and  that  even 
her  father  had  believed,  for  he  could  not  relinquish  the  hope 
that  she,  whom  he  had  loved  so  much,  was  not  lost  to  him 
forever — if  there  is  a  life  to  come,  Brendice  asked  herself. 


The  Midnight    Visitor.  1 1 5 

what  preparation  for  the  enlarged  duties  of  a  nobler  exist 
ence  is  he  making,  who  shrinks  from  the  performance  of  his 
tasks  in  this?  What  work  shall  be  entrusted  to  that  hand 
which  has  let  go  its  hold  on  labors,  which,  though  hard,  will 
soon  be  ended  ;  to  open,  itself,  the  gates  of  Eternity,  and 
take  up  an  employment  whicli  shall  never  be  completed  ? 


CHAPTER    X. 

AT    THE   ROOKS. 

]  BENDICE  had  reached  her  home,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  she  stood  before  the  closed  door,  resting 
her  hand  on  the  latch  and  asking  herself  if  the 
burden  of  her  past  life,  heavier  in  some  respects  than  before, 
and  now  without  a  seeming  help  at  hand,  dreary  in  its  hope 
lessness,  must  be  lifted  again. 

Hopelessness  as  far  as  human  life  was  concerned — for  the 
hereafter  which  might  reveal  to  her  what  she  knew  not  now, 
she  did  not  believe  could  be  an  earthly  future. 

Should  the  burden  of  her  past  life  be  lifted  again,  or 
should  she  walk  away  forever  from  the  sea,  and  try  to  forget 
all  that  was  buried  there,  and  with  it  the  wish  for,  and 
purpose  of  revenge  ?  ' 

The  young  men  who  had  hired  her  father's  boat  yesterday, 
had  paid  very  liberally  for  its  use.  The  money,  she  thought, 
would  buy  for  her  a  decent  dress  and  a  pair  of  shoes,  and 
then  she  would  go  away,  and  seek  some  employment  else 
where. 

The  new  life  might  be  very  difficult  for  her  to  enter  upon  at 
(116) 


At  the  Rocks.  1 1 7 

first.  The  tasks  she  might  be  compelled  to  perform,  would 
be  perhaps  as  wearying  to  body  and  mind  as  the  old  burden 
had  been,  she  was  so  unused  to  the  ways  of  the  world  ;  but 
the  door  of  its  great  work-shop  stood  open  as  wide  for  her  as 
for  another.  She  would,  at  length,  effect  an  entrance  there. 

Strength,  physical  or  mental,  should  find  her  a  place  some 
where,  among  the  world's  most  skilful,  and  busiest  artizans. 

She  would  leave  everything  about  the  house  just  as  her 
father  had  leit  it.  Perhaps  he  might  return.  She  did  not 
think  there  was  the  least  probability  that  he  would  do  so, 
bat  if  he  should  come  back,  nothing  would  be  changed; 
only  she  would  be  gone,  and  doubtless  he  would  be  glad  of 
that. 

Yes  ;  she  must  go  away. 

Once  more — a  long  last  look  on  the  sea,  and  then  she  would 
walk  away  from  it,  up,  over  the  hills,  and  come  back  to  it  no 
more  forever! — unless  he  should  return.  She  could  easily 
enough  ascertain  if  he  did,  and  wished  to  have  her  again  with 
him. 

She  turned,  and  went  down,  with  a  step  which  was  begin 
ning  to  be  weary  now,  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  looked 
away  into  the  sea — wistfully,  grievedly,  as  a  child  might  look 
on  the  picture  of  a  dead  mother's  face. 

The  sun  came  up  as  she  gazed,  and  on  the  broad  bosom 
before  her  there  was  but  one  spot  which  was  not  sparkling 
with  the  reflected  light. 

To  that  one  little  spot  her  face  turned,  and  a  change  came 
over  her  features,  as,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  she 
fixed  her  gaze  on  that  point  of  The  Eocks,  only  a  speck  in  the 
distance,  which  ran  out  farthest  oceanward  ;  and  that  one 


n8  By  the  Sea. 

dark  spot  suddenly  blotted  out  all  the  light  which  was  begin 
ning  to  dawn  upon  her  soul. 

With  her  best  glass  she  knew  she  could  see  nothing  there 
but  huge  granite  boulders,  piled  high,  one  above  another, 
with  clean  white  sand  sifted  in  between  ;  the  snug  little 
dwelling  erected  for  the  keeper's  use,  but  which  it  was  said 
was  never  occupied  now  ;  and  the  lighthouse  rising  up, 
seemingly  so  cold  and  defiant,  against  the  warm,  yielding  sky. 
But  her  thoughts  were  very  busy  gathering  up  events,  scat 
tered  widely  apart,  some  of  them  events  of  the  long  past,  and 
at  first  glance  showing  no  relation  to  each  other  ;  and  ar 
ranging  them,  at  length,  into  a  picture,  the  sight  of  which  so 
fascinated  her  eyes  that  nothing  could  come  between  it  and 
her  vision. 

The  purpose  she  had  just  formed  passed  away,  entirely, 
from  her  mind,  and  her  feet  felt  no  weariness  now,  as  they 
moved,  impatiently,  up  and  down  the  beach,  waiting  till  a 
certain  boat  should  appear  upon  the  water.  The  boat  she 
was  looking  for  was  Greyson's.  Simple  as  he  really  was,  of 
all  the  fishermen  on  the  coast,  Jerry  knew  best  when  it  was 
safe  to  take  out  a  boat,  and  especially  when  it  was  safe  to 
start  for  The  Rocks  ;  and  well  he  might,  for  he  had  been  over 
there  very  many  times  within  the  last  score  of  years. 

"Measure  for  measure  ;  pressed  down  and  running  over!" 

Brendice  did  not  remember  where  she  had  read  those 
words,  but  they  came  to  her  some  hours  later,  when  she  was 
steering  her  boat  over  the  yet  rough  waters  to  The  Eocks. 

She  had  never  been  to  the  islands  before  ;  her  father  had 
strictly  forbidden  her  doing  so  ;  and  it  was  without  expecta 
tion  of  learning  anything  respecting  his  fate,  that  she  was 


At  the  Rocks.  119 

going  there  now ;  or  intention,  particularly,  of  making 
inquiries  concerning  the  quarrel  which,  it  was  said,  had 
arisen  between  him  and  young  Maitland,  while  they  were 
there  together  the  preceding  day. 

It  was  to  ascertain,  if  possible,  why  her  father  had  gone  to 
The  Bocks,  which,  she  had  many  times  wondered  why,  he 
had  never  visited  ;  never  to  her  knowledge,  and  in  fact  where 
he  never  had  before  been,  since  the  night  of  Mr.  Maitland's 
disappearance. 

Even  the  waters  in  their  vicinity,  which  at  particular 
seasons  of  the  year  yielded  the  greatest  abundance  of  the 
most  marketable  fish  of  any  grounds  in  the  neighborhood, 
were  always  avoided  by  him  ;  a  locality  twice  the  distance 
from  The  Sands,  and  not  very  easy  to  reach,  except  at  certain 
heights  of  the  tide,  being  always  preferred  by  him. 

She  had  learned,  years  ago,  that  her  father's  thoughts  were 
oiten  directed  towards  the  keeper  of  the  Convoy  light,  and 
she  had  sometimes  seen  the  quick  flash  of  the  eyes,  and  the 
sudden  nervous  twitching  of  the  fingers,  when,  as  she  was 
aiding  him  in  some  out-of-doors  employment,  (no  one  ever 
came  into  their  dwelling, )  a  fisherman  chanced  to  make  some 
allusion  to  Mr.  Aden,  or  the  Commodore,  as  he  was  most 
frequently  called. 

And  she  had  often  thought  it  very  strange,  for  she  learned, 
five  years  before,  why  her  father  remained  at  The  Sands, 
year  after  year  ;  that  he  so  pertinaciously  clung  to  the  belief 
that  he  should  some  time  encounter  Mr.  Maitland  there. 

Had  he  gone  over  to  the  islands  the  day  before  to  see  the 
lighthouse  keeper?  She  inferred  so  from  some  remarks 
made  by  the  young  men  who  had  hired  his  boat,  when  their 


I2O  By  the  Sea. 

companions  came  down  from  the  hotel  to  meet  the  loiterers 
on  their  arrival.  They  were  talking,  those  who  had  spent 
the  day  at  The  Sands,  and  those  who  had  been  over  to  The 
Rocks,  when  she  drew  near  them,  and  one  of  the  latter,  not 
observing  her,  had  said,  referring  to  Du  Bois  : 

"  It  was  not  for  the  purpose  of  fishing  that  he  went  out, 
though  be  had  some  of  his  apparatus  with  him,  I  saw  ;  for  we 
promised  him  twice  the  amount  of  money  for  the  use  of  his 
boat  that  the  best  haul  could  possibly  bring  him." 

"  Well,  it  cannot  be  helped  now,  another  added,  "  but  if  we 
had  not  spoken  of  our  wish  to  see  the  lighthouse  keeper,  we 
should  have  failed  to  get  the  boat,  or,  at  least,  he  would  not 
have  followed  us." 

No  one  asked  why,  and  the  question  did  not  occur  to 
Brendice  then,  for  there  was  something  in  the  faces  of  the 
men,  as  they  recognized  her,  which  caused  her,  for  the  time, 
to  pay  little  attention  to  the  remark. 

She  remembered  it  now,  and  asked  the  question  of  herself, 
as  she  stood,  looking  away  into  the  sea  ;  and  with  that  ques 
tion  came  others,  strange,  startling  ones  they  were. 

The  most  deeply  absorbing  one,  to  her,  was  this  : 

Who  was  that  man  she  had  seen  standing  by  Mrs.  Mait- 
land's  bed  on  the  previous  night  ?  and  would  she  recognize 
him,  if  she  should  see  him  again  ? 

Greyson's  boat  did  not  pass  into  the  Convoy  inlet. 

The  swollen  waters  would  have  dashed  it  against  the  rocks, 
had  the  fisherman  attempted  to  guide  its  course  in  that  direc 
tion.  There  was  a  little  bay,  much  safer,  when  the  sea  was 
rough,  extending  into  another  of  the  islands,  and  into  this 
the  man  ran  his  boat. 


At  the  Rocks.  121 

Brendice  followed,  not  far  behind  him,  for  he  had  lost 
time  in  examining  the  waters  near  the  inlet. 

Apparently  he  was  very  desirous  of  going  directly  up  to 
the  lighthouse,  but  found  he  could  not  do  so. 

When  he  had  made  his  boat  safe  he  came  to  the  assist 
ance  of  Brendice,  who,  quite  unacquainted  with  the  locality, 
and  not  understanding  the  gestures  or  the  jargon  of  the  lit 
tle  half-nude  urchins  who  were  down  at  the  water's  edge, 
gathering  the  broken  pieces  of  a  boat  which  had  been  dashed 
against  the  rocks  during  the  night,  came  very  near  making  a 
wreck  of  her  own  boat. 

Greyson  recognized  the  girl  as  he  pointed  out  a  safe  land 
ing.  He  had  heard  of  the  accident  of  the  previous  day.  In 
fact  his  business  at  the  islands  that  morning  was  to  ascertain 
if  anything  had  yet  been  learned  of  Du  Bois  or  young  Mait- 
land.  What  use  he  intended  to  make  of  the  information  he 
hoped  to  acquire,  was  best  known  to  himself,  for  the  fisher 
man  very  seldom  manifested  any  interest  in  the  affairs  of 
others,  even  when  life  or  death  was  involve^  unless  there 
was  some  prospect  of  pecuniary  profit  to  himself. 

But  he  seemed  now  not  only  very  willing  to  render  as 
sistance  to  another,  but  extremely  anxious  to  do  so,  while  he 
strove  to  make  his  remarks  as  interesting  to  Brendice,  as  his 
ready  assistance  was  useful. 

Greyson  would  like  to  see  any  other  girl  on  the  coast 
'tempt  to  do  what  Mam'selle  had  done  that  morning, 
'specially  young  Miss  Brown,  who  was  so  stuck  up  and 
thought  she  was  too  smart  to  speak  to  any  of  the  fishermen 
'cept  Luke  Maitland — poor  fellow!  But  Luke  had  known 
what's  what,  as  well  as  anybody  did. 

6 


122  By  the  Sea. 

It  was  a  pity,  Grey  son  thought,  that  Lute  and  Brendice's 
father  had  always  been  such  bad  friends. 

He  was  speaking  in  a  slow  tone,  lengthened  now  to  a 
drawl,  and  looking  out  from  under  the  lids  of  those  pale 
blue  eyes  of  his,  which  always  seemed  to  observe  nothing. 

But  Brendice,  who  was  returning  his  gaze,  perceived  that 
he  was  eagerly  and  cunningly  watching  the  expression  of 
her  countenance,  to  ascertain  if  his  words  produced  any 
effect  on  her. 

His  watch  was  in  vain,  however.  Her  features  were  per 
fectly  under  her  control.  They  did  not  change,  neither  was 
there  the  least  tremor  in  her  voice,  when,  without  noticing 
the  latter  part  of  his  remark,  she  said  : 

"  Why,  you  do  not  consider  it  a  great  affair  to  bring  a  boat 
over  here  this  morning,  do  you,  when  some  one  crossed  the 
waters  between  The  Sands  and  the  islands  twice  last  night, 
in  the  darkness  and  the  storm  ?  It  went  to  pieces,  though,  I 
see,  against  the  rocks,  on  its  return!" 

She  pointe^TO)  the  broken  planks  which  the  children  were 
industriously  and  fearlessly,  though  one  would  have  thought 
at  the  imminent  peril  of  their  lives,  collecting  from  out  the 
crevices  of  the  rocks,  and  carrying  up  through  the  surf, 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  waves. 

Greyson  did  not  immediately  reply,  he  was  so  entirely 
unprepared  for  the  question  ;  but  stood  with  his  eyes  dis 
tended  now,  and  his  mouth  wide  open,  staring  into  her  face. 

"  Wall,  I  wouldn't  ha'  tried  it,  no  how !"  he  managed  to 
say,  at  length,  and  apparently  from  feeling  a  necessity  for 
making  some  reply, — "  no,  not  for  five  dollars,  cash  in  hand ! 
Who  d'ye  think  it  was,  Mam'selle  ?" 


At  the  Rocks.  123 

But  Brendice  was  not  anxious  to  prolong  the  conversation. 
She  had  learned  all  she  had  hoped  to,  from  Greysou  ;  and 
thanking  him  for  directing  her  how  to  steer  her  boat,  she 
turned,  and  walked  away  towards  the  children.  They  had 
been  joined  in  their  labors  by  some  older  persons,  one  a 
grown-up  girl,  apparently  a  year  or  two  younger  than 
Brendice,  and  as  coarsely  and  scantily  attired  as  was  she  ; 
and  the  other,  a  woman  of  fifty,  the  mother  of  the  children. 

The  women  had  glanced  at  her,  as  she  first  stepped  on 
shore,  with  some  distrust  ;  but  as  she  drew  nearer,  they  were 
apparently  better  satisfied  with  her  appearance  ;  and  when 
she  mentioned  her  name,  and  they  understood  that  she  was 
the  daughter  of  the  fisherman  whom  they  had  seen  the  day 
before  at  the  islands,  and  who  was  drowned  while  returning 
to  The  Sands — for  the  news  of  the  accident  had  reached  The 
Eocks — they  left  their  work,  and  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

The  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  which  she  awkwardly  tried 
to  rub  away  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  Her  own  father's 
boat,  not  many  months  before,  was  found,  one  fair,  bright 
morning,  which  had  followed  a  stormy  night,  lying  high  up 
upon  the  beach  without  an  occupant. 

The  elder  woman  was  no  less  inclined  to  manifest  her 
sympathy,  though  in  a  different  way,  for  the  young  stranger. 
She  greeted  her  with  a  great  flow  of  words,  very  few  of  which, 
however,  could  Brendice  understand,  as  she  knew  nothing  of 
English  but  the  pure,  chaste  language  which  her  father  had 
taught  her ;  and  the  vernacular  at  The  Rocks,  particularly 
that  spoken  by  the  female  portion  of  the  little  community, 
was  little  other  than  a  mere  jumble  of  nautical  terms  and 
local  phrases. 


124  By  the  Sea. 

But  the  pleasant  animated  voice  put  her  quite  at  her  ease, 
and  she  endeavored  to  ascertain  the  facts  she  was  desirous 
of  learning. 

For  a  long  time,  however — she  remained  several  hours  at 
The  Rocks — this  was  with  little  prospect  of  success.  -The 
women  knew  nothing  about  the  quarrel  between  Du  Bois 
and  young  Maitland.  Two  men,  whose  homes  were  on  the 
island,  though  they  were  now  on  board  the  fishing  schooner 
that  was  anchored  the  day  before  off  The  Rocks,  and  which 
had  sailed  before  the  storm  came  on,  had  witnessed  the 
dispute.  They  had  referred  to  it,  and  one  of  them  said  that 
the  life  of  the  old  fisherman — meaning  Da  Bois — would  not, 
to  use  his  own  language,  be  worth  a  rotten  herring,  if  he 
ever  put  himself  in  the  way  of  that  young  fellow  again. 

In  the  hurry  to  get  off,  however,  as  they  wished  to  run  up 
to  the  Port  before  the  storm  was  upon  them,  they  did  not 
explain,  so  far  as  the  woman  had  heard,  the  cause  of  the 
difficulty. 

This  Brendice  did  not  care  about. 

She  could  not  believe  that  Luke  Maitland  had  really  been 
blameworthy  in  the  affair.  She  thought  she  had  very  good 
and  sufficient  reasons  for  disbelieving  it. 

She  had  decided,  in  her  own  mind,  the  preceding  evening, 
when  she  heard  the  fishermen  talking  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff, 
as  they  were  hauling  in  her  father's  empty  boat,  that  the 
drowning  of  the  two  men  had  been  simply  accidental.  She 
wished  to  think  so,  and  would  have  been  very  unwilling  to 
find  proof  to  the  contrary. 

Her  father,  she  believed,  would  rather  lose  his  life  than 
owe  it  to  Luke  Maitland,  and  he  had  torn  himself  away  from 


At  the  Rocks.  125 

the  young  man's  grasp,  lest  it  should  save  him.  Neither 
could  she  think  he  really  intended  to  injure  Luke.  It  was 
only  in  a  fit  of  partial  insanity,  she  always  felt  sure,  that  he 
had  attempted  to  destroy  Mrs.  Maitland's  life. 

If  he  had  wished  to  harm  her  son,  he  would  have  found 
opportunity  for  doing  so  before  this  time. 

In  his  death-struggle,  perhaps,  he  had  flung  out  his  arm, 
and  his  fingers  had  fastened  themselves  on  something,  he 
knew  not  what,  and  the  two  men  went  down  together.  But 
however  it  might  have  been,  between  them,  the  affair  was 
now,  undoubtedly,  ended  forever.  If  one  had  sought  to 
injure  the  other,  she  thought,  he  had  met  with  a  speedy 
punishment. 

What  Brendice  wished  to  learn  was,  why  her  father  had 
gone  over  to  The  Bocks.  But  when  she  spoke  of  the  light 
house  keeper,  the  woman  became  suddenly  silent ;  and 
looking  nervously  down  to  the  ledge  where  her  children  were 
playing  in  the  surf,  and  waiting  till  the  receding  waver; 
should  allow  them  to  reach  the  broken  plank  that  was 
tightly  wedged  in  between  two  high  boulders,  beckoned 
them  very  peremptorily  from,  as  has  been  before  remarked, 
their  seemingly  very  perilous  situation,  though  the  almost 
amphibious  little  creatures  were,  half  the  time  when  their 
eyes  were  open,  apparently  exposed  to  well  nigh  the  same 
danger. 

They  did  not  seem  particularly  in  haste  to  obey  the  signal, 
and  she  hastened  towards  them  to  compel  obedience.  The 
children  scampered  away,  and  the  woman  followed  them  ; 
but  the  girl,  whom  her  companion  called  Ives,  and  who  had 
not  spoken  before,  drew  a  step  nearer  Brendice  and  inquired, 


126  By  the  Sea. 

pointing  up  to  the   lighthouse,  if  it  was  he  she  wished  to 
ask  about. 

Yes!  Did  the  young  men  who  had  come  over  to  The 
Rocks  the  day  before,  or  her  father,  go  over  to  the  Convoy 
to  see  him  ? 

After  considerable  difficulty  in  finding  out  what  the  girl 
wished  to  say,  though  she  spoke  more  intelligibly  than  the 
woman,  Brendice  ascertained  that  Ives  had  gone  over  to  the 
spot  where  the  young  men  were  to  make  their  chowder — she 
and  her  brother,  in  the  hope  of  selling  them  some  choice  fish 
for  the  purpose. 

The  spot  they  had  selected  was  on  an  island,  lying  between 
that  on  which  Brendice  had  landed,  and  the  Convoy ;  and 
one  of  the  men  had  borrowed  the  girl's  boat,  and  gone  over 
to  the  lighthouse  to  invite  the  Commodore  to  join  their 
party. 

The  man  had  brought  some  one  back  with  him  in  the  boat. 
It  was  not  Mr.  Aden,  however,  but  a  stranger  from  the  main 
land,  who  was  over  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  lighthouse, 
in  quest  of  sea-fowl. 

Mr.  Aden,  it  was  said,  had  declined  the  invitation,  on  the 
plea  of  illness.  And  he  did  look  ill,  the  gentleman  who  had 
sought  him,  said,  and  he  had  wonderfully  changed,  during 
the  last  fifteen  years,  previous  to  which  time  he  had  had 
some  acquaintance  with  him. 

Their  old  friend,  over  at  the  hotel,  he  added,  who  was  so 
anxious  to  hear  particularly  from  Mr.  Aden,  would  be  sorry 
to  learn  what  he  would  be  obliged  to  tell  him. 

The  stranger,  who  very  gladly  accepted  the  invitation 
extended  to  him,  was  a  tall,  fine-looking  man ;  his  personal 


At  the  Rocks.  127 

appearance,  when  viewed  at  a  distance,  being  not  very  unlike 
that  of  the  lighthouse  keeper,  whom  the  girl  had  frequently 
seen. 

The  party  sat  down  to  their  refreshments  as  soon  as  he 
had  joined  them  ;  and  the  girl  and  her  brother  were  just 
stepping  into  their  boat,  when  they  perceived  Brendice's 
father  coming  over  the  sand-hill  below  which  the  young  men 
had  spread  their  repast. 

The  girl  had  never  seen  Du  Bois  before,  but  her  brother,  to 
whom  he  was  well  known  by  sight,  remarked  on  the  strange 
ness  of  his  appearance,  as,  after  a  brief  survey  of  the  party, 
none  of  whom  seemed  to  take  any  notice  of  him,  he  turned 
slowly  back  by  the  way  he  had  come,  and  disappeared  beyond 
the  hill. 

This,  the  girl  thought,  was  previous  to  his  meeting  with 
Luke  Maitland ;  and  she  had  not  seen  Vn'm  after,  or  heard 
anything  about  him,  until  news  had  come  that  young  Mait 
land  had  upset  his  boat,  and  that  he  was  drowned. 

She  drew  nearer  Brendice,  and  added,  in  a  whisper,  that 
she  had  learned  this  from  the  son  of  the  woman  who  had 
just  been  talking  with  her. 

He  was  out  on  the  water  when  the  affair  took  place,  and 
had  told  her,  when  he  returned,  that  it  was  no  accident 
which  h&d  happened.  Luke  Maitland  had  purposely  caused 
Du  Bois'  death ;  and  if  he  escaped  drowning  himself,  he, 
young  Hobart,  would  bring  him  to  the  gallows. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AT  LAST. 

|  HE  sun  was  shining  brightly  through  Mrs.  Mait- 
land's  window,  for  the  dark-leaved,  blossoming 
vines  were  trailing  over  the  white  sand,  and  the 
pots  of  sweet  tea-roses  lay  overturned  upon  the  earth ;  the 
former  torn  away  by  the  rough  wind,  and  the  latter  put 
swiftly  aside  by  Brendice,  to  make  way  for  her  quick  ingress 
to  the  apartment,  when  the  stranger  stood  at  the  bedside  of 
the  sleeping  woman. 

The  light  fell  across  the  pale,  peaceful  face,  and  she  opened 
her  eyes.  Very  mercifully,  the  remembrance  of  her  great 
grief  came  to  her  in  a  subdued  form,  in  her  waking  dream. 

She  fancied  herself  standing  on  what  she  thought  to  be  the 
confines  of  the  earth,  and  looking  away,  over  the  narrow 
cleft — for  it  seemed  to  her  that  this,  and  the  better  world, 
had  once  been  united  ;  and  perhaps,  sometime,  by  the  power 
of  the  wondrous  cross,  all  the  sin  and  sorrow  here  might  pass 
away  forever,  and  Heaven  and  earth  again  become  as  one — 
looking  away  over  the  narrow  cleft,  she  had  seen  her  son,  on 

the  other  side,  reaching  out  his  strong  arms  towards  her. 
(128) 


At  Last.  129 

Then  the  scene  changed.  It  was  she  herself  who  had 
crossed  the  dark  and  narrow  way,  and  was  standing  now, 
surrounded  with  ineffable  light,  and  supremely  blest,  stretch 
ing  one  hand  out  to  Luke,  over  whom  many  tides  of  time 
had  seemed  to  roll  since  she  had  last  looked  upon  his  face, 
though  he  was  her  boy  still ;  and  with  the  other  pointing 
up — up,  and  far  away,  to  a  brightness  before  which  the  arch 
angel  veiled  his  face,  and  a  beauty  which  the  redeemed  only 
can  look  upon,  and  they  only  through  that  intervening  veil — 
the  exceeding  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

She  awoke  then,  and  found  it  was  only  the  natural  sun 
which  was  enveloping  her  in  its  brightness  ;  and  the  weight 
of  her  grief  fell  upon  her,  but  not  with  crushing  force. 

All  through  that  long  summer  day,  when  the  neighbors, 
and  several  beyond  the  immediate  neighborhood,  were,  in 
mistaken  kindness,  coming  and  going,  with  words  of  in 
tended  comfort  and  advice,  and  offers  of  assistance ;  and 
through  many  days  and  weeks  which  succeeded,  the  influence 
of  that  dream, — which  she  chose  to  regard  as  a  vision,  and 
too  holy  to  be  mentioned  but  to  one,  and  then  only  in  her 
dying  moments, — followed  her,  assuredly  leading  her  nearer 
and  nearer  to  that  cleft,  but  by  a  smooth,  heaven-lighted 
pathway. 

Very  bitter,  however,  was  one  remembrance,  and  it  came 
to  her  often,  poisoning  the  cup  which,  but  for  that,  she 
thought  might  cheerfully  have  been  drank. 

The  remembrance  of  what  the  fishermen  had  said,  how 
Luke  had  commenced  the  quarrel  with  Du  Bois  at  The 
Eocks,  and  how  he  afterwards  intentionally  had  upset  his 
boat ;  and  subsequent  inquiry,  which  she  had  not  dqubted 

Q* 


130  By  the  Sea. 

would  show  these  suspicions  to  have  been  groundless,  to  all 
appearance  proved  them  to  be  too  well  founded. 

Not  however  to  the  mother,  who  understood  her  son 
better  than  did  any  one  else.  She  was  sure  he  had  not  com 
menced  the  quarrel  with  the  Frenchman,  and  that  he  must 
have  been  excited  almost  to  madness  by  some  word  or  act  of 
Du  Bois,  if  he  had  intended  to  injure  him  on  the  water. 

She  knew  what  no  one  else  did,  unless  it  was  the  French 
man's  daughter,  how  hard  to  be  borne,  by  a  proud  young 
man,  might  be  some  words  which  Du  Bois,  if  he  were  dis 
posed  to  do  so,  could  utter,  and  with  truth,  to  Luke.  She 
was  very  glad  to  remember  that  he  had  speedily  conquered 
his  passion,  and  was  trying  to  save  Du  Bois  when  death 
came  to  himself.  She  did  not,  however,  attempt  to  exone 
rate  him  from  blame  to  others. 

She  only  received  patiently  the  condolences  offered  her  by 
her  neighbors,  the  poor  heart  swelling  a  little  when  those 
who  knew  and  liked  him  best,  remarked  that,  with  all  his 
faults,  Luke  was  a  good,  clever  fellow,  and  the  lips  slightly 
trembling,  but  keeping  quite  silent.  Very  hard  was  all  this 
to  bear! 

What  troubled  Mrs.  Maitland  most  in  regard  to  the  stories 
circulating  am(5ng  the  people,  was  the  fear  that  Brendice  Du 
Bois  would  believe  Luke  really  and  intentionally  guilty  of 
her  father's  death. 

She  had  heard,  while  on  the  cliff  that  night,  all  that  Mrs. 
Maitland  had  listened  to  ;  and  the  next  day,  it  was  said,  she 
had  taken  her  boat,  though  the  sea  was  still  very  rough,  and 
gone  over  to  The  Bocks,  where  she  would  most  .likely  be 
told  whether  it  was  true  or  false, — for  Luke  frequently 


At  Last.  131 

fished  off  the  islands,  and  consequently  was  not  very  well 
liked  there,  Du  Bois,  on  the  contrary,  never  going  there,  and 
therefore  having  the  good-will  of  the  fishermen,  some  of 
whom  had  met  with  him  at  the  Port, — that  the  young  man 
had  commenced  the  dispute,  and  doubtless  was  wholly  to 
blame  for  its  result. 

During  the  course  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Maitland  learned  that 
it  was  not  Miss  Emma  Brown  who  had  kindly  spent  the 
night  near  her  ;  for  that  young  lady  made  a  brief  call  on  her 
dearest  friend,  with  profuse  apologies  for  not  coming  to  her 
the  previous  evening. 

Emma  was  very  sorry  for  poor  Luke,  and  it  was  too  bad 
for  his  mother  to  remain  there  all  alone  in  the  house.  She 
thought,  likely  as  not,  Mrs.  Maitland  could  get  Sally  Jones 
to  stay  with  her ;  and  Sally  was  as  clever  an  old  soul  as  ever 
lived. 

Who  could  it  have  been  then  that  had  led  her,  with  such  a 
firm,  gentle  hand,  to  her  home,  and  remained  with  her  all 
through  the  gloomy  night,  and  but  for  whom  she  must  have 
perished  on  the  cliff? 

Could  it  be  Brendice  Du  Bois?  she  asked  herself, — the 
friendless,  neglected,  and  despised  girl,  made  destitute  and 
orphaned  by  the  crimes  of  those  who  had  been  so  near  and 
dear  to  herself  that  their  wrong-doings,  she  thought,  must 
seem  to  others,  as  they  had  once  done  to  her,  to  be  her 
own  acts? — Brendice  who,  knowing  what  she  most  likely 
knew,  had,  heedless  of  her  wrongs  and  her  own  grief,  laid 
her  cool  hand  so  tenderly,  the  past  night,  on  Mrs.  Maitland 's 
throbbing  temples,  as  her  head  dropped  upon  the  pillow,  that 
the  words  had  suddenly  come  to  her — the.  first  heavenly 


132  By  the  Sea. 

help  which  had  been  given  her  in  that  hour  of  overpowering 
agony : 

"  Who  knoweth  not,  in  all  these,  the  hand  of  the  Lord 
hath  wrought  this  ?" 

The  idea  that  her  companion  of  the  past  night  must  have 
been  the  French  girl,  occurred  to  her  as  she  was  sitting  alone, 
towards  the  close  of  the  day,  after  the  neighbors  had  offered 
fcheir  condolences,  and  returned  to  their  homes.  She  was  feel 
ing  weary — oh,  so  very  weary,  as  she  listened  to  the  sound  of 
the  in-coming  tide,  mechanically  counting  in  her  old,  childish 
way,  the  white-crested  waves  as  they  successively  rolled  in, 
and  fancying  that  each  tenth  billow  struck  with  heavier  force 
upon  the  shore,  and  sent  its  waters  out  wider  over  the  sand 
than  had  its  predecessors  ;  while  in  her  deeper  thought  she 
wondered  how  many  times  the  tide  would  ebb  and  flow, 
before  she  listened  to  the  welcome  voice  of  another  sea, 
thanking  heaven  for  the  precious  promise  : 

"  When  thou  passest  through  the  waters,  I  will  be  with 
thee ;  and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall  not  overflow 
thee." 

Then  another  thought  had  come  :  How  many  and  many 
times  during  the  first  summer  of  Du  Bois'  residence  at  The 
Sands,  before  she  had  learned  who  he  was,  had  she  wished 
that  the  stranger's  child  might  be  entrusted  to  her  care  : 
how  that  wish  had  become  a  prayer  from  the  morning  when 
she  had  expected  death  from  the  Frenchman's  hands,  not 
withstanding  the  avoidance  of  each  other  on  the  part  of  both 
families  ;  hopelessly,  but  daily,  uttered,  even  when  she  be 
lieved  that  Du  Bois  would  be  no  more  opposed  to  the  re 
ceiving,  by  his  daughter,  of  any  kindness  from  herself,  than 


At  Last.  133 

Luke  would  be  to  any  manifestation,  on  the  part  of  his  mo 
ther,  of  interest  in  the  girl. 

She  had  been  unable,  herself,  even  to  plan  a  way  in  which 
she  might  seek  to  benefit  Brendice. 

^  With  heaven  all  things  were  possible,  she  had  tried  to 
strengthen  herself  by  thinking.  Perhaps  it  would  find  a 
way  for  her.  But  she  had  little  dreamed  through  what  a 
billowy  sea  of  agony,  though  the  waters  had  parted  beneath 
her  feet, — through  what  a  waste,  howling  wilderness,  though 
bread  had  come  to  her  from  heaven,  and  water  was  dripping 
from  the  rock, — that  path  would,  at  length,  be  marked  out. 

Marked  out,  plainly  enough  it  was,  now,  to  her ! 

After  a  prayer  for  wisdom  to  guide,  and  strength  to  sustain 
her — for  she  thought  that  both  vigor  of  body  and  determi 
nation  of  purpose  might  desert  her,  when  she  stood  in  the 
presence  of  that  girl  so  terribly  wronged — she  rose  from  her 
seat,  drew  her  little  tea-table  out  into  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  with  many  tears,  made  it  again  ready  for  two  persons. 

More  than  once  while  doing  so,  the  tears  were  suddenly 
checked,  and  the  shadow  of  a  smile  crossed  her  face,  and  she 
paused  for  a  moment  in  her  work  and  listened  for  a  sound 
she  was  never  to  hear  again. 

It  was  too  strange  for  belief ! 

Luke,  whom,  not  once  in  her  life,  she  had  thought  of 
losing,  could  not  now  be  gone  from  her  forever ! 

The  sound  of  his  footsteps  upon  the  rocks,  a  merry  laugh 
or  a  snatch  of  the  boat-song  of  which  he  was  so  fond,  would 
soon  fall  upon  her  ear,  and  wake  her  from  that  terrible 
nightmare. 

Nothing  came  but  the  voice  of  the.  ocean,  and  the  fall  of 


134  By  the  Sea. 

the  vine  leaves  against  the  window  panes.  In  the  course  of 
the  day  she  had  'tenderly  gathered  them  up,  and  fastened 
them  again  where  Luke  had  nailed  them. 

The  repast  was  ready  and  the  tea-kettle  singing  in  the 
little  stone  fireplace  which  her  son  had  made  for  her,  a  few 
steps  from  the  dwelling.  Mrs.  Maitland,  moving  as  if  she 
had  been  in  a  dream,  walked  away  from  her  door,  down  over 
the  ledge  and  along  the  beach  towards  the  abode  she  had 
entered  on  that  dark,  stormy  night,  almost  fifteen  years 
before,  to  hear  the  voice  of  that  little  lonely  child  calling,  in 
such  piteous  tones,  on  her  long-lost  mother,  and  to  wake  to 
the  conviction  of  her  husband's  fearful  crime. 

How  would  she  find  Brendice  Du  Bois  to-night?  And 
what  terrible  revelation  might  be  made  to  her ! 

As  she  passed  slowly  along  the  sand,  she  kept  her  eyes  on 
the  line  of  rocks  above  her,  hoping  that  the  girl  she  sought 
would  be  out  on  the  ledge,  as  she  very  often  was  after  the 
fish-houses  were  closed,  and  the  strangers  had  all  left  the 
beach,  whatever  the  state  of  the  weather  might  be  ;  for  Mrs. 
Maitland  felt  very  reluctant  to  enter  the  dwelling  which  had 
been  the  home  of  Du  Bois. 

Brendice  was,  however,  nowhere  to  be  seen,  until  her 
visitor  stood  at  the  threshold  of  the  fisherman's  cabin. 

The  door,  which  was  on  the  west  side  of  the  building,  stood 
widely  ajar,  and  the  warm,  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  shone 
into  the  room,  as  the  visitor  stood  there  and  glanced  trem 
blingly  into  the  apartment. 

It  was  a  very  comfortless  looking  place,  falling  just  short, 
in  its  appearance,  of  filthiness  and  disorder. 

On  one  side  of  the  room  were  arranged  piles  of  fish  in  dif- 


At  Last.  135 

ferenfc  stages  of  drying ;  and  fishing-tackle,  some  of  which 
seemed  to  be  just  undergoing  repairs,  not  yet  quite  com 
pleted.,  was,  with  the  tools  and  materials  required  in  mending, 
lying  scattered  about  on  the  floor.  The  other  side  was  oc 
cupied  by  a  rude  couch,  on  which  had  been  carelessly  thrown 
some  articles  of  Du  Bois'  clothing,  apparently  just  as  he  had 
left  them  when  he  went  out  the  day  before  ;  a  small  table  at 
which  Brendice  was  now  sitting  ;  a  couple  of  stools,  and  a 
large  sea-chest,  the  lid  of  .  which  was  partially  raised,  and 
filled,  so  far  as  could  be  seen,  with  books  and  maps,  and  two 
or  three  telescopes  of  different  sizes. 

The  inner  room,  the  door  of  which  was  also  open,  revealed 
nothing  to  the  eye  whieh  turned  towards  it,  but  a  sleeping 
cot  made  up  upon  the  floor,  a  painter's  easel,  with  the  can 
vas  towards  the  wall,  and  a  newspaper,  yellow  with  age, 
pinned  over  the  window. 

There  were  no  curtains  of  any  kind  over  the  two  small 
windows  of  the  larger  apartment,%  and  the  walls  of  both 
rooms  were  unfinished.  The  rough  boards  had  once  been 
whitewashed  ;  but  the  coloring  had  well  nigh  disappeared 
under  the  dripping  of  the  wet  fish  often  hung  against  it. 

Brendice  was  sitting  at  the  table,  and  her  evening  repast 
was  before  her.  It  consisted  of  a  bit  of  boiled  fish,  cooked 
probably  the  previous  evening  for  her  father's  supper,  some 
fragments  of  dry  corn  bread,  and  water  in  a  tin  cup. 

Nothing  had  passed  the  girl's  lips  for  the  last  twenty-four 
hours,  and  she  thought  not  of  the  coarseness  of  the  food  ;  for 
the  supper  was  no  more  uninviting  than  had  been  many  a 
meal  she  had  eaten  with  good  relish,  but  yet  she  was  not  try 
ing  to  eat. 


136  By  the  Sea. 

Her  arms  lay  crossed  upon  the  table,  and  her  head  was 
bent  so  low  over  them  that  Mrs.  Maitland,  as  she  looked 
eagerly  towards  her,  thought  the  girl  might  be  sleeping,  and 
she  stepped  softly  over  the  threshold. 

But  the  first  touch  of  her  foot  upon  the  sanded  floor 
aroused  her,  and  Brendice  Du  Bois  started  up. 

A  few  minutes  before,  a  boat  which  had  come  in  later  than 
the  rest,  touched  the  landing,  and  the  voices  of  two  fisher 
men  came  up  from  the  beach. 

Mrs.  Maitland  thought,  as  she  regarded  that  changing 
countenance  turned  towards  her,  that  perhaps  when  the 
footfall  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  the  girl  might  have  fancied, 
for  the  briefest  instant,  it  was  that  of  her  father  ;  and  she 
shrank  away,  as  if  withered,  before  the  expression  which  the 
disappointment  brought  to  that  bronzed  face. 

3ut  it  was  not  wholly  disappointment  which  produced 
that  change  in  the  girl's  appearance  ;  for  after  an  instant's 
wild  stare  at  her  visitor's  countenance,  she  drew  back  until 
she  had  placed  the  table  between  herself  and  Mrs.  Maitland, 
and  then  stood,  motionless,  in  her  usual  attitude  ;  her  fingers 
clutched  tightly  together,  and  her  head  thrown  forward  ;  but 
her  lip  was  held  now,  sufferingly  between  her  teeth,  and  her 
eyes, — her  visitor  could  not  look  upon  them,  for  if  eyes  ever 
flashed  fire,  those  dark  orbs  emitted  sparks  of  light. 

The  past  night,  in  the  darkness  and  the  storm,  her  new 
bereavement  not  yet  quite  certain,  and  a  poor,  feeble  woman 
who  had  been  somebody's  mother,  needing  to  be  watched 
over, — the  spirt  of  her  gentler  parent  had  moved  the  hands, 
and  softened  the  heart  of  Brendice  Du  Bois. 

In  the  fresh,  bracing  air  of  the  early  morning,  when  the 


At  Last.  137 

heavens  and  the  ocean  were  tranquillizing  themselves  with 
the  passing  of  the  clouds,  and  the  low,  deep  moan,  Brendice 
had  grown  strong  by  weeping,  and  felt  ready  to  labor  and  to 
wait,  to  stand  apart  from  all  help  and  from  all  companionship, 
as  she  had  always  done,  for  the  idea  that  any  one  would 
come  to  her  in  her  desolate  and  destitute  orphanage,  with 
kind  and  comforting  words,  and  with  a  hand  willingly 
stretched  forth  to  aid  her,  had  not  occurred  to  her.  It  would 
not  have  been  a  welcome  thought. 

She  would  not  have  desired  expressions  of  sympathy  from 
the  people  about  her  who  knew  nothing  of  her  real  wrongs 
and  sufferings,  any  more  than  she  wished  for  the  pauper's 
dole. 

She  would  labor  with  a  might  which  must  bring  reward, 
on  whatever  work  should  be  placed  before  her,  and  wait  till 
a  stronger  hand  than  her  own  would  shape  the  events  of 
her  future. 

But  now,  in  the  full  light  of  the  setting  sun,  falling  so  bright 
and  warm  upon  the  ocean,  which  during  many  hours  of  that 
day  she  had  been  looking  down  into,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
open  mouth  of  a  sepulchre,  ready  to  reveal  what  it  had 
already  swallowed  up,  and  gaping  wide  for  another  victim, 
all  her  father's  hate  and  thirst  for  vengeance  looked  from  her 
eyes,  and  fired  her  soul. 

Fearful  of  herself,  she  had  drawn  back  till  the  table  stood 
between  her  and  the  feeble  being  her  fingers  were  trembling 
to  hold  in  a  deadly  gripe. 

Mrs.  Maitland's  hand  rested  on  the  door  frame,  for  a 
momentary  weakness  passed  over  her. 


138  By  the  Sea. 

"  The  girl  knows  all ;  and  I  am  again  completely  in  the 
power  of  a  maniac  !"  she  thought. 

But  she  would  not  shrink  from  her  purpose,  though  the 
manner  of  its  execution  must  be  different  from  what  she  had 
intended  it  should  be. 

She  pressed  her  hands  tightly  over  her  heart,  for  there  was 
a  very  strange  feeling  upon  her,  though  she  did  not  know 
how  that  singular  sensation  was  revealed  on  her  counte 
nance, — what  terrible  words  it  was  writing  there,  as  she 
stepped  to  the  side  of  the  girl ;  but  she  was,  herself,  startled 
by  the  tone  in  which  she  said,  when  a  fearful  moment  had 


"  I  perceive  you  know  who  I  am  !" 

But  Brendice  saw  and  understood  that  something  almost 
like  the  shadow  of  Death  was  near  ;  and  perhaps  she  was  as 
much  surprised  by  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  as  Mrs.  Mait- 
land  had  been,  when,  after  an  instant's  silence,  and  while  the 
better  spirit,  striving  so  hard  for  the  mastery,  and  strength 
ened  as  if  by  the  breath  of  the  dread  Presence  she  thought 
was  so  near,  and  which  seemed  to  be  cooling  and  purifying 
the  atmosphere  about  her,  at  length  triumphed, — she  re 
plied  : 

"Yes,  I  know  who  you  are! — the  mother  of  the  lad  who 
once  saved  my  life." 

She  paused  for  an  instant,  and  then  repeated  : 

"Who  once  saved  my  life!"  adding,  as  if  speaking  to  her 
self  alone,  "  it  was  a  valueless  thing,  though  ;  not  half  worth 
the  saving !" 

A  faint  color  came  to  Mrs.  Maitland's  face.  Her  hands 
dropped  to  her  side,  and  she  sank  down,  dizzied  with  joy 


At  Last.  139 

and  thankfulness,  upon  a  seat ;  but  she  caught  the  girl's 
idea. 

"  Brendice,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  and  speaking  in  a 
very  calm,  even  tone,  "  do  not  call  your  life  valueless.  It 
Mill  be  worth  more  to  me  than  all  I  have  lost,  the  husband 
whom  I  had  believed  was  so  good  and  true,  the  wealth  I  had 
considered  so  rightly  our  own,  the  hold  on,  earthly  existence 
I  had  thought  was  so  secure,  and — and  my  boy  !  more  than 
all  but  my  hope  in  Heaven.  And  I  will  bless  the  Power 
which  has  taken  my  earthly  all  away,  if  that  Power  will  but 
give  me  you ! 

"  I  should  have  perished  last  night  upon  the  cliff,  if  you 
had  not  cared  for  me  like  a  tender  child.  Let  me  call  you 
my  child  while  I  live  ;  it  will  be  but  for  a  little  while  that 
any  earthly  good  can  be  mine  ;  and  when  I  die," — a  serenity 
and  beauty  which  seemed  not  of  the  world  came  to  the 
strangely  fair  face — "  when  I  die  I  will  give  you  into  the 
keeping  of  One  whose  love  is  stronger  than  death  ;  One  who 
will  never  leave  nor  forsake  you !" 

Her  voice  had  not  trembled  once  while  she  spoke.  New 
strength  came  to  it,  with  each  word  she  uttered. 

Brendice  did  not  reply,  but  she  was  busily  thinking.  Her 
wrongs  had  not  come  through  this  woman.  The  countenance 
before  her,  she  could  plainly  see.  was  the  index  of  a  gentle, 
loving  heart ;  and  Mrs.  Maitland  had  but  for  a  brief  space 
of  time  enjoyed  the  wealth  of  which  her  husband  had  so 
wickedly  become  possessed. 

And,  besides,  here  was  an  opportunity  for  discharging  that 
obligation  which  had  weighed  so  heavily  on  her  father  and 
herself — that  for  which  he  had  so  cursed  her  ;  and  for  which 


140  By  the  Sea. 

she  had  felt  herself  so  guilty  :  the  saving  of  her  life  by 
Luke  Maitland. 

His  mother  now  needed  to  be  watched  over.  Very  soon 
she  would  require  the  tenderest  care. 

If  Brendice  should  devote  herself  to  the  task,  would  not 
that  debt  be  paid  ? 

And  then,  when  Mr.  Maitland  was  at  length  found — Du 
Bois  had  never  doubted  but  the  man  would,  sometime,  be  in 
his  power,  and  now  that  her  father  Avas  gone,  she  thought 
that  the  work  he  had  so  longed  to  execute,  was  left  for  her 
to  do — when  he  should  be  found,  her  hands  would  be  free 
from  the  galling  chains  she  had  feared  would  never  be 
broken. 

Then  she  would  mete  out  to  the  author  of  all  her  wrongs 
a  "Measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over!" 

A  power  beyond  her  own,  she  thought — and  a  faint  smile 
came  to  her  lips — was  already  beginning  to  shape  events 
for  her. 

Mrs.  Maitland  widely  mistook  the  meaning  of  that  smile  ; 
and  anxious  to  leave  the  dwelling,  she  rose  feebly  from  her 
seat,  and  put  her  arm  within  the  girl's. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  go  with  me !"  she  said.  "  Neither  you 
nor  I  have  a  friend  in  the  world,  but  each  other." 

She  thought  of  the  Browns,  whom  she  had  considered 
most  friendly  to  her,  and  especially  of  Emma,  whom  she  had 
regarded  as  her  future  daughter-in-law.  Even  Mrs.  Mait 
land  had  understood  why  that  young  lady  was  so  interested 
in  finding  a  companion  for  her. 

"  Come,  my  child  !"  and  she  strove,  gently,  to  lead  the 
girl  away. 


At  Last.  141 

Brendice  did  not  resist,  but  walked  out  of  the  dwelling 
with  hor,  and  along  the  beach  ;  when  they  had  reached  the 
ledge  drawing  her  companion's  arm  closer  within  her  own 
and  moving  more  slowly,  for  the  woman's  strength  was  now 
well  nigh  exhausted  ;  feeling  an  emotion  of  sorrow  for  her, 
but,  on  the  whole,  glad  that  Mrs.  Maitland  seemed  to  need 
assistance  so  much,  that  the  work  she  had  before  her — the 
discharge  of  her  obligation — might  be  immeadiately  com 
menced. 

As  she  walked  along,  tenderly  supporting  her  companion, 
and  all  through  the  coming  night,  as  she  sat  by  the  open 
window,  alteinately  looking  out  upon,  and  dreaming  of  the 
sea,  for  she  could  not  so  soon  persuade  herself  to  occupy  the 
bed  which  Mrs.  Maitland  had  given  up  to  her  use — resting 
her  own  poor  little  head  on  the  pillow  which  Luke's  health 
ful,  rosy  cheek  so  many  times  had  pressed, — she  answered 
the  vengeful,  clamorous  thoughts  each  time  they  rose  within 
her,  by  the  words  :  "Measure,  pressed  down,  and  running 
over  !" 

Alas,  poor  Brendice  Du  Bois ! 

In  all  her  father's  teachings,  and  they  had  been  many,  for 
in  point  of  intellectual  training  he  had  not  neglected  his 
daughter — the  girl  on  account  of  her  perfect  disregard  of 
personal  appearance,  and  the  eccentricity  of  her  habits, 
regarded  by  the  fishermen  and  their  families  as  scarcely 
possessed  of  a  common  share  of  intellect,  being  a  woman  of 
the  finest  mental  organization,  and  highly  educated, — in  all 
his  teachings,  much  of  which  had  been,  however, 

"The  knowledge  which  harms  the  soul  to  know," 
he  had  impressed  upon  her  only  this  from  the  Bible  : 


142  By  the  Sea. 

"  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth  !"  and  "  Whoso 
sheddeth  man's  blood,  by  man  shall  his  blood  be  shed  !" 

That  had  been  the  first  lesson  the  child  was  taught,  and 
on  the  day  in  which  Luke  Maitland  saved  her  life,  when  she 
would  have  turned  her  eyes  gratefully  on  the  youth,  and 
spoken  her  deep  thanks,  the  reason  why  that  lesson  had 
been  so  many  times  repeated,  was  given  in  words  which 
seemed  to  freeze  it  into  the  blood  in  her  veins. 

The  lesson  never  after  needed  repetition. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  FAITHFUL  DEPARTED. 


at  The  Sands,  except,  perhaps,  Miss 
Emma'  Brown,  thought  it  a  very  excellent  plan  for 
Mrs.  Maitland  to  take  that  poor  girl  home  and 
IOOK  aiter  her.  No  doubt  Luke  had  been  to  blame  for  her 
father's  death,  and  it  was  his  mother's  duty  to  do  something 
for  her,  and  keep  her  "  off  the  town  "  BO  long  as  she  could 
afford  to. 

But  it  soon  became  apparent  to  those  who  felt  any  inte 
rest  in  the  matter,  that  Brendice  Du  Bois  was  in  no  degree 
indebted  to  the  woman  with  whom  she  found  a  home,  for  her 
maintenance. 

On  the  morning  after  going  to  the  dwelling,  and  every 
succeeding  day,  until  the  season  was  over,  when  the  weather 
was  favorable  for  fishing,  and  Mrs.  Maitland  was  well  enough 
to  be  left  alone,  for  her  health  began  more  rapidly  to  decline 
after  Luke's  disappearance,  the  girl  had  taken  her  father's 
boat,  which  she  managed  with  great  dexterity,  and  had  gone 
out  on  the  sea,  returning,  usually,  with  as  much  fish  as  the 
men  brought  in. 


144  By  Mi 

At  first  Mrs.  Maitland  tried,  gently,  to  dissuade  her  from 
doing  this  ;  and  sought  to  interest  her  in  some  feminine  em 
ployment,  puzzling  her  head  with  plans  for  Brendice's  future. 

She  could  support  her  in  a  comfortable  manner  as  long  as 
sae  herself,  probably,  would  live  ;  but  there  would  be  little 
left  for  the  girl  after  she  was  gone. 

She  very  soon  learned,  however,  that  Brendice  was  not  a 
person  to  receive  a  favor  from  any  one,  least  of  all  from  her 
self  ;  that  not  even  for  her  companionship  had  the  girl  con 
sented  to  come  to  her  home. 

Yet  she  showed  this  so  kindly,  that  Mrs.  Maitland 's  feel 
ings  were  never  wounded;  though  so  firmly  that  all  attempts 
at  persuasion  were  soon  abandoned. 

Every  refusal  to  receive  a  favor  from  Mrs.  Maitland  would 
be  followed  on  the  part  of  Brendice  by  a  quick  compliance 
with  some  request  in  which  her  friend's  pleasure  only  was 
concerned.  In  this  way,  many  of  her  old  habits,  particularly 
that  of  personal  untidiness,  were  gradually  dropped. 

At  first  she  gave  more  attention  to  her  attire,  simply  for 
the  gratification  of  her  to  whom  she  would  have  thought  the 
debt  she  was  trying  to  liquidate,  illy  paid,  unless  in  addition 
to  the  labor  which  she  performed  for  her,  she  sought  so  far 
as  possible  to  please  her;  and  the  interest  which  she  mani 
fested  in  herself,  she  perceived,  gave  her  friend  more  pleasure 
than  anything  else  afforded. 

But  after  a  remark  which  Mrs.  Maitland  made  to  her  one 
evening,  as  they  were  sitting  together  in  the  dim  twilight, 
Brendice  began  to  think,  herself,  of  her  personal  appearance. 

The  mother  had  not  put  on  mourning  for  her  son. 

On  the  contrary,  every  afternoon  of  that  summer  had  seen 


The  Faithful  Departed.  145 

her  with  the  pale  rose-colored  ribbons  which  Luke  had 
bought  for  her,  in  her  fair  hair,  and  dressed  in  the  pretty 
lilac  muslin  he  liked  so  well. 

Brendice  always  found  her  thus  attired,  when  she  came  in 
from  her  fishing,  sitting  by  the  vine- wreathed  window,  looking 
out,  and  watching  for  her  return. 

Sometimes,  when  she  felt  more  than  usually  well  and 
strong,  she  walked  down  to  meet  the  girl  at  the  time  the 
boats  would  be  likely  to  come  in,  as  she  had,  so  many  times, 
gone  out  to  meet  her  boy  ;  and  with  the  same  gentle,  loving 
words  on  her  lips  with  which  he  had  been  greeted.  If  the 
tears  would  come  into  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  was  low  and 
broken,  she  would  say,  in  her  simple,  earnest  manner  : 

"  They  are  tears  of  thankfulness  as  much  as  they  are  tears 
of  grief,  dear  Brendice ! — joy  that  I  have  you,  sorrow  that  I 
must  wait  longer  before  I  see  him  again." 

And  then  she  would  sit  down  upon  the  ledge,  murmuring 
half  audibly  to  herself,  as  her  thoughts  went  on,  while  she 
waited  for  Brendice  to  take  care  of  her  fish,  or  dispose  of  it 
to  her  customers. 

The  proprietor  of  the  Ocean  House,  who  was  a  very  kind, 
good  man,  and  several  others  residing  near  the  neighborhood, 
seeing  how  industriously  the  poor  orphaned  girl  was  toiling, 
that  she  might  not  be  dependent  on  othei's,  and  that,  instead 
of  receiving  benefits  from  Mrs.  Maitland,  she  was  conferring 
on  her  great  kindness,  rendering  her  gratuitously  the  assist 
ance  which  her  frequent  returns  of  feebleness  required, 
made  it  a  point  to  relieve  the  young  fishwoman  of  the  pro 
duct  of  her  day's  labor,  and  to  pay  her  a  good  price  for  it,  so 
soon  as  the  boat  reached  the  beach. 

7 


146  By  the  Sea. 

As  she  sat  upon  the  ledge,  waiting  for  Brendice's  arm  to 
lean  upon,  when  she  returned  to  her  dwelling,  Mrs.  Maitland 
compelled  her  poor  heart  to  be  satisfied  with  the  thought 
that  she  had  not  asked  Heaven  to  conduct  her  by  a  smooth 
and  easy  pathway.  If  it  would  but  lead  her  to  the  heart  of 
that  girl,  she  would  not  weep  over  the  roughness  of  the  way, 
though  her  foot  should  bleed  at  every  step  she  took. 

Brendice  had  intended,  when  she  could  get  a  sum  of  money 
sufficient  for  the  purpose,  to  purchase  for  herself  a  simple 
suit  of  mourning. 

Her  father,  for  aught  she  had  ever  been  told,  was  all  the 
relative  she  had  in  the  world ;  and  notwithstanding  his 
harshness  to  her,  she  had  loved  him. 

She  saw  how  much  she  had  loved  him,  more  and  more 
plainly  as  the  weeks  passed.  She  had  always  known  it, 
though  often  it  had  seemed  very  strange  to  her,  how  she 
clung  to  him. 

She  had  thought  of  it  with  wonder,  as  she  clambered  over 
the  ledge,  through  whose  crevices,  filled  with  the  fine  white 
sand  worn  away  from  the  rocks,  wetted  so  often  with  the 
bitter,  salt  spray,  and  so  heated  with  the  noonday  sun  as 
almost  to  burn  the  fingers  which  touched  it,  some  little 
tough  hardy  plant  sturdily  forced  its  way,  throwing  out  its 
arms  with  their  red  veins,  as  if  a  deeper  life  were  given  to 
it — blood  from  a  throbbing  heart — when  nature  withheld  the 
nourishment  it  should  have  bestowed.  The  little,  hardy, 
determined  thing  seemed  to  Brendice  very  much  like  herself ; 
and  she  had  loved  it  far  more  than  the  pretty,  sweet-scented, 
fragile  blossoms  she  had  found  in  her  infrequent  rambles 
among  the  neighboring  hills. 


The  Faithful  Departed.  147 

She  had  never  sheltered  a  fainting  plant  from  the  burning 
sun,  or  brought  a  drop  of  water  to  quench  its  thirst ;  but 
she  had  watched,  day  after  day,  over  it,  to  see  if  it  would 
gather  strength  to  itself,  or  droop  and  die,  and  laughed  or 
cried,  as  it  grew  strong  again  or  withered.  And,  thinking 
of  her  own  hard,  unloved,  uncared-for  life,  she  wondered 
where  the  strong  affection  within  her  found  its  nutriment. 

In  summing  up  the  miseries  of  her  life,  as,  in  those  hours 
when  she  was  alone  in  her  boat  upon  the  sea,  she  was  very 
apt  to  do,  she  began  daily  to  drop  out,  here  and  there,  or  try 
to  cancel,  something  she  had  considered,  and  rightly  too,  a 
grievous  wrong ;  though  this  was  only  so  far  as  her  father 
was  considered. 

She  did  not  like  to  think  that  he  should  pass  away  from 
the  world,  and  leave  no  trace  behind  him ;  that  the  tide  of 
time  should  close  as  quickly  over  his  memory,  as  the  parted 
wave  had  met  again,  over  his  sinking  form.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  reflect,  hereafter,  that  she  had  paid  him  what 
little  tribute  of  respect  she  had  been  able  to  do. 

She  would  buy  her  a  simple  mourning  suit,  and,  when  she 
had  saved  another  little  sum  of  money,  she  would  ask  Mr. 
Brown  if  there  would  be  any  impropriety  in  placing  in  the 
graveyard  a  stone  bearing  her  father's  name,  and  telling 
when  he  died,  and  if  she  would  be  permitted  to  use  a  little 
spot  for  that  purpose,  under  one  of  those  low,  wide-spread 
ing  evergreens  halfway  up  the  hillside,  and  overlooking  the 
sea — his  deep  grave! 

She  had  not  quite  decided  whether  she  would  ask  Mr. 
Brown  this,  or  whether  she  would,  with  her  own  hands, 
carve  her  father's  name  on  that  high  rock  that  jutted  out 


148  By  the  Sea. 

into  the  sea,  where  she  had  stood,  so  many  times,  looking 
and  waiting  for  the  long-lost  mother,  and  watching  for  the 
boat  which  had,  at  last,  returned  without  its  owner. 

But  Brendice  did  not  buy  her  suit  of  mourning. 

The  pretty  dresses  which  Mrs.  Maitland  had  tried,  so  hard, 
to  persuade  her  to  accept,  were  of  bright  colors,  and  nicely 
trimmed.  They  were  some  she  had  worn,  herself,  in  her 
sunny  youth,  but  which  had  been  laid  aside  when  the  great 
grief  came. 

While  refusing  the  garments,  Brendice  would  not  wound 
her  feelings  by  the  purchase  of  one  very  much  unlike  what 
her  friend  thought  suitable  for  her ;  and,  consequently,  one 
day,  when  she  had  saved  a  sum  of  money  sufficient  for  the 
purpose,  she  went  up  to  the  store  and  bought  material  for  a 
plain  green  dress,  with  simple  jet  ornaments  for  trimming. 
The  garment  was  fashioned  by  the  skilful  fingers  of  Miss 
Sally  Jones,  who  was  the  dressmaker  at  The  Sands. 

It  looked  very  nicely  as  Mrs.  Maitland  arranged  it  about 
Brendice,  one  evening  after  she  returned  from  her  fishing. 
Mrs.  Maitland  had  been  very  feeble  that  day,  and  Brendice 
reproached  herself  when  she  returned  at  night-fall,  and  saw 
how  thin  and  white  was  the  face  which  was  watching  so 
earnestly  for  her  coming,  that  she  had  left  her  for  so  many 
hours  alone. 

Unknown  to  herself,  the  work  she  had  taken  up  as  an 
obligation  was  beginning  to  be  regarded  by  Brendice  as  a 
privilege ;  and  when,  after  arranging  the  new  dress,  Mrs. 
Maitland  drew  her  into  a  chair,  and  began  to  take  down  and 
comb  out  her  long  thick  hair,  laying  it  smoothly  over  the 
temples,  and  gathering  it  into  heavy  braids  low  in  her  neck, 


The  Faithful  Departed.  149 

the  girl  made  no  resistance.  It  was  the  first  time  since  her 
remembrance  that  a  hand  had  been  placed  tenderly  upon  her 
head,  and  the  habitual  hard,  cold  expression  of  her  features 
softened  a  little  beneath  the  gentle  touch. 

As  the  toilet  was  completed,  she  rose  and  turned  her  face 
towards  Mrs.  Maitland. 

The  pretty  dress  set  off  to  good  advantage  her  very  fine 
form,  and  the  change  in  the  arrangement  of  the  hair,  and  the 
gentler  expression  on  the  features — especially  the  look  of 
gratitude  which  she  had  never  suffered  her  countenance  to 
wear  before — though  the  emotion  had  often  found  its  way 
into  her  heart,  since  coming  to  her  new  home— for  the  kind 
ness,  which  the  girl  regarded  as  undeserved,  so  far  had  she 
been  at  first  from  being  governed  by  any  friendly  feeling 
towards  Luke's  mother — the  new  attire,  the  style  of  dressing 
the  hair,  and  the  change  on  the  features,  produced  a  won 
derful  transformation  in  Brendice's  whole  appearance. 

As  Mrs.  Maitland  lifted  her  eyes,  for  Brendice,  properly 
dressed,  seemed  to  have  shot  up  some  inches  in  height,  and 
looked  into  that  face — not  fully,  in  the  gathering  twilight,  re 
vealed  to  her  view — a  deep  flush,  succeeded  with  lightning 
swiftness  by  a  death-like  pallor,  and  a  violent  contortion  of 
muscle,  passed  over  her  countenance. 

The  parted  lips  could  not  give  utterance  to  the  cry  which 
rose  to  them,  and  she  sank  down  to  the  floor,  not  fainting, 
but  seemingly  paralyzed  with  terror  ;  completely  paralyzed, 
only  the  eyes  saw  with  strange  clearness  and  strength,  and 
there  was  an  agony  of  fear  in  their  gaze. 

The  girl  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment,  returning  the  look 
of  those  dilated  eyes  ;  and  then  she  put  back  the  hair  from 


i5o  By  the  Sea. 

her  temples,  and  the  old  expression  of  sternness  and  defiance 
settled  back  on  her  features.  She  took  Mrs.  Maitland  up 
from  the  floor,  and  led  her  to  her  bed,  and  then  turned  away 
and  went  out  of  the  house,  down  towards  the  beach. 

How  full  of  sweet,  pleasant  sound  the  ocean  was ! 

It  seemed  like  the  gentle  call  of  a  mother,  wooing  her 
child  to  her  breast ;  and  she  felt  that  the  tender  pressure  of 
an  arm,  whose  clasp  could  not  be  broken,  would  be  very 
pleasant  to  her. 

But  not  yet,  not  yet ! 

More  clear  and  distinct  than  ever  came  out  that  one  pur 
pose  before  her  mind  :  * 

Revenge  on  him  whose  crimes  had  blasted  her  young 
life! 

And  this  woman,  to  whom  her  appearance  seemed  sud 
denly  to  have  become  so  abhorrent ! 

Should  she  go  back  to  her,  and  watch  over  her  for  the  few 
weeks  or  months  that  she  might  still  live  ?  or  should  she  im 
mediately  enter  upon  the  accomplishment  of  that  purpose 
with  the  execution  of  which  she  was  charged  ? 

She  sat  down  on  the  ledge,  and  her  gaze  was  fastened  on 
the  spot  along  the  eastern  horizon  where  the  Convoy  light 
suddenly  streamed  up  brightly  against  the  darkening  sky  ; 
so  immovably  that  one  might  have  thought  that  beacon-light 
was  the  eye  of  a  living  Medusa,  and  that  Brendice  had  so  re 
garded  it  ever  since  the  morning  which  followed  that  night 
when  the  old  boat  had  returned  empty  to  the  beach — that 
morning  when  she  had  gone  over  to  The  Eocks,  and  talked 
with  the  girl  Ives ! 

She  had  heard  since  nothing  more  than  she  had  learned 


The  Faithful  Departed.  i5i 

that  day.  The  old  gentleman,  still  at  the  Ocean  House,  who 
had  been  so  anxious  that  his  friend  should  see  Mr.  Aden  on 
the  day  they  went  over  to  the  islands,  had  not  been  able  to 
visit  him  himself.  He  had  had  great  trouble  lately.  It  was 
said  that  a  woman,  whom  he  had  very  dearly  loved,  and  her 
young  child,  were  lost  in  the  ship  which  had  foundered  on 
the  Bar  during  the  fierce  gale  of  that  night  after  Luke  Mait- 
land  and  Brendice's  father  were  drowned.  She  had  not  been 
over  there  since  ;  nor,  until  to-night,  had  she  fixed  her  eyes 
on  the  Convoy  light. 

But  the  suspicion  which  had  fastened  itself  on  her  mind 
was  still  there.  She  could  not  make  it  seem  a  groundless 
one  ;  and  she  looked  at  the  light  now  with  set  teeth  and 
clenched  hands,  and  wished  it  was  a  dark,  stormy  night,  and 
that  there  was  a  sound  of  dipping  oars  coming  up  from  the 
sea. 

More  than  an  hour  passed  away. 

The  twilight  had  faded  into  night,  and  the  round  white 
moon  and  the  bright  stars  were  looking  down  from  a  serene 
sky ;  and  some  one  came  and  sat  down  beside  her,  and  a 
voice,  low  and  gentle,  and  full  of  tears,  asked,  tremblingly, 
while  an  arm  was  put  about  her  waist  : 

"  Brendice,  did  you  ever  see  a  likeness  of  your  mother  ? 
Did  your  father  ever  describe  her  to  you  ?" 

"No,  never!"  she  replied,  softly,  though  earnestly,  "but  I 
would  give  half  my  life,  to  look  on  a  face  resembling  hers !" 

"Then  look  on  your  own  coitntenance,  dear  Brondice!" 
said  Mrs.  Maitland.  "Your  mother  was  very  beautiful ;  by 
far  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw  ;  and  I  know  she 
must  have  been  very  good  and  gentle,  too  ;  and  to-night  you 


1 52      v  By  the  Sea. 

looked  so  strangely  like  her,  as  I  saw  her  on  that  terrible 
night  when — when  " — 

"Do  not  distress  yourself,  dear  madam!"  said  the  girl, 
pressing  close  to  the  form  which  was  shrinking  away  from 
her.  "  Only  tell  me  that  I  resemble  my  mother,  and  I  shall 
half  forget " — 

Brendice  paused.  She  could  not  say  "how  she  died,"  but 
she  added — "  I  will  bless  you,  forever !" 

"  You  looked  so  strangely  like  her  to-night,"  was  the  re 
ply,  "  that,  for  a  moment,  in  my  weakness,  I  thought  those 
sweet  bright  eyes  were  resting  again  on  me." 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time,  but  the  tears  were  falling 
fast  over  the  faces  of  both,  and  though  they  never  referred 
again  to  Brendice's  mother,  each  knew  that  she  was  very 
often  in  the  other's  thoughts. 

After  that,  Brendice  began  to  care  very  much  for  her  per 
sonal  appearance  ;  hastening  to  complete  her  labors  for  the 
day,  that  she  might  put  on  the  pretty  green  dress,  coming 
unbidden  to  sit  at  Mrs.  Maitland's  feet,  and  throwing 
the  long  hair  over  her  shoulders  that  it  might  be  smoothed 
upon  her  brow,  and  woven  into  close  braids  ;  and  then  watch 
ing  anxiously  for  the  quick  glance  of  sorrowful  pleasure 
that  would  tell  her  when  her  countenance  wore  the  look 
•vrhich  so  much  resembled  her  mother's. 

But  unobservant  as  Mrs.  Maitland  was,  she  saw  that  the 
great  change  which  was  passing  over  Brendice  was  only  an 
external  one  ;  at  best  that  her  heart  was  only  momentarily 
softened.  Her  influence  was  not  subduing,  not  elevating, 
that  proud,  revengeful  nature.  With  her  best  endeavor,  she 
could  not  find  her  way  to  the  girl's  heart.  She  was  exciting 


The  Faithful  Departed.  163 

her  pity  and  gaining  her  respect ;  but  she  could  not  win  her 
love. 

In  her  struggles — that  quiet,  patient,  but  earnest,  unre 
mitting  attempt  could  be  called  nothing  but  one  long  strug 
gle — to  lift  her  thoughts  to  Heaven,  there  was  only  this  re 
ward  for  Mrs.  Maitland  : — 

The  meek  folding  of  the  arms  upon  the  breast,  and  the 
unuttered  words  :  "  God's  time  is  the  best  time !  and 
though  it  tarry,"  wait  for  it ;  it  will  surely  come,  for  "in  my 
distress  I  cried  unto  the  Lord,"  and  "  He  will  fulfil  the  de 
sire  of  them  that  fear  Him !" 

She  had  not  found  the  way  to  Brendice's  heart,  pleasant 
and  kind  as  the  girl  always  was  to  her.  She  saw  this  more 
and  more  plainly  as  the  nearer  approach  of  death  made  her 
vision  clearer  ;  for  the  feeble  lamp  of  life  burned  low  as  the 
sunlight  of  a  soft  Indian  summer  day  disappeared  from  the 
horizon  ;  fainter  and  fainter  as  the  twilight  deepened,  and  so 
gently  going  out,  that  the  only  watcher  at  the  bedside  knew 
not  when  the  earthly  life  ended,  nor  when  the  heavenly  be 
gan. 

Only  for  a  week  or  two  had  she  seemed  more  feeble  ;  but 
Brendice  knew  that  the  time  was  near,  the  time  when 
that  worn,  weary  spirit  should  enter  into  its  eternal  resta 
the  time  when  the  obligation  which  had  so  weighed  upon 
her,  would  be  discharged  ;  and  the  most  loving  daughter 
could  not  have  smoothed  more  tenderly  than  did  she  the 
earthly  pathway  for  those  trembling  feet. 

Mrs.  Maitland  did  not,  herself,  fully  realize  that  the  great 
change  was  so  soon  to  come. 

She  had  been  feeling  very  free  from  the  slight  pain  which 

7* 


1 54  By  the  Sea. 

had  troubled  her  for  some  time  past,  and  the  remembrance 
of  her  griefs  was  fading  away  with  it.  Even  her  most  ab 
sorbing  thought — anxiety  for  Brendice — was  quite  forgotten 
in  the  pleasure  of  having  the  girl  constantly  near  her.  She 
never  now  for  a  moment  left  Mrs.  Maitland,  who  was  not 
satisfied  to  have  any  one  but  her  at  her  bedside,  and  who 
listened  to  her  voice,  which  to  the  ear  of  the  dying  had  be 
come  low  and  strangely  sweet,  as  if  it  was  a  strain  of  far-off 
music  ;  and  gazed  upon  her  countenance  with  an  earnest,  un 
certain  look. 

Sometimes  she  seemed  to  be  in  doubt  whether  it  was  a 
living  face,  or  a  beautiful  painting  she  beheld,  though  often 
there  swept  over  those  features,  when  the  eyes  suddenly 
encountered  the  fixed  untiring  gaze  of  Mrs.  Maitland,  a  tide 
of  such  conflicting  emotions  as  she  believed  a  painter  might, 
in  vain,  seek  to  transfer  to  his  canvas. 

It  was  only  within  a  few  hours  of  her  death,  as  she  roused 
herself  from  what  she  thought  was  a  quiet,  peaceful  sleep, 
and  opened  her  eyes  to  find  Brendice  kneeling  at  her  bed 
side,  with  a  face  pale  and  distorted  with  agony,  that  the  idea 
came  to  her  that  the  end  might  be  near,  and  that  this 
the  girl  knew.  But  the  startled  look  which  came  over  her 
countenance  passed  quickly  away,  and,  very  far  from  under 
standing  the  cause  of  Brendice's  emotion,  she  said,  quietly  : 

"  Am  I  dying,  dear  ?     And  are  you  sorry  for  me  ?" 

"No !"  Brendice  said,  "not  sorry  for  you,  for  death  must  be 
gain  to  such  as  you  are !" 

"  Then  you  are  sorry  for  yourself,  my  child,"  Mrs.  Mait 
land  went  on,  very  tenderly  and  lovingly,  as  she  stretched 
put  the  feeble  hand,  and  rested  it  on  the  girl's  head,  "  That 


The  Faithful  Departed.  i55 

pleases  me  more  than  anything  else  could  do,  for  it  assures 
me  that  you  have,  at  length,  begun  to  love  me  a  little,  and 
will  think  of  me  after  I  am  gone,  and  will  remember  the 
promise  I  wish  you  to  make  me,  before  I  go." 

"No,  madam,"  replied  Brendice,  firmly,  "I  will  not  deceive 
you,  even  to  make  you  happy  in  this  solemn  hour.  I  am 
not  sorry  for  myself,  although  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me. 
Our  ways  in  life  would  have  been  widely  apart,  only  that  I 
knew  this  hour  must  soon  come  ;  and  in  all  time,  our  lives 
could  never  have  been  bound  together.  And  you  must  not 
seek  to  extract  that  promise  from  me,  you  have  so  often 
wished  I  would  make.  It  assuredly  will  never  be  spoken.  I 
will  not  utter  the  prayer,  '  And  forgive  us  our  trespasses  as 
we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us.' " 

And  though  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  dying, 
and  she  knew  it  was  so,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  her  head 
was  held  firmly  erect  :  " '  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for 
a  tooth.'  '  Good  measure,  pressed  down,  and  running  over.' " 

Mrs.  Maitland  closed  her  eyes. 

"  God's  time  is  the  best  time !"  she  said,  faintly  and  re 
signedly.  "  When  that  time  arrives,  do  not  be  sorry  that  it 
has  not  come  sooner,  Brendice,  for  who  can  tell  that  I  may 
not  know  when  your  thoughts  will  turn  to  me  ?  My  mother 
died  at  my  birth,  and  I  never  had  a  sister  or  a  daughter,  or 
any  very  dear  female  friend,  and  our  lives,  your  earthly  and 
my  heavenly  one,  I  am  very  sure  something,  sometime,  will 
bind  together !  But  what  is  it,  my  child  ?" 

She  again  lifted  her  eyes  to  see  Brendice  bending  low  over 
her,  with  that  look  of  agony,  intenser  than  before,  over 
spreading  her  face. 


1 56  By  the  Sea. 

"  What  is  it,  iny  child?    What  do  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?" 

The  girl's  lips  parted  more  than  once  before  the  words 
came,  but  when  she  did  speak,  it  was  with  as  much  earnest 
ness  as  distinctness,  though  the  first  sentence  she  uttered 
seemed  to  be  addressed  to  herself,  rather  than  her  companion. 

"  My  work  will  not  be  well  finished,  the  obligation  will  not 
all  be  discharged,  unless  this  is  done." 

And  then  to  Mrs.  Maitland  : 

"You  have  said,  many  times,  that  my  face  is  the  object  on 
which  you  would  look  your  last,  and  that  my  voice  is  the 
sound  you  would  listen  to.  Think  again !  Your  son,  for 
aught  I  know,  is  dead.  I  have  no  doubt  but  he  and  my 
father  perished  together.  But  there  is  another !  would  you 
see  him  ?  The  tide  is  just  turning,  and  I  think  there  is  yet 
Home  hours  before  you.  Shall  I  go  for  him  ?  If  I  do,  good-by, 
forever !"  And  Brendice  took  Mrs.  Maitland's  hands  gently 
in  her  own,  and  bending  lower  over  her,  touched  her  lips, 
for  the  first  time,  to  the  pale  brow. 

"  I  will  go !     Adieu,  forever !" 

But  the  fingers  of  the  dying  woman,  for  she  seemed  to 
know  all  that  Brendice  meant,  fastened  tightly  on  the  hands 
that  held  them,  when  the  kiss  was  pressed  on  the  brow,  and 
a  contented,  happy  smile  came  to  her  face,  as  she  murmured  : 

"  Do  not  leave  me,  my  child !  You  are  my  best  beloved, 
either  of  the  living  or  of  the  dead.  Let  me  look  on  your 
face,  let  me  listen  to  your  voice,  to  the  last !" 

And  then  she  whispered  for  some  moments  longer — till 
the  quiet  sleep  came  again,  though  Brendice  caught  only 
these  words  :  "  My  Maker  is  my  husband ;  the  Lord  of 
hosts  is  His  name." 


The  Faithful  Departed.  167 

The  hours  were  passing  away,  and  the  tide  was  rising 
higher  and  higher  on  the  beach,  each  dash  of  the  waves 
sounding  in  Brendice's  ears  like  a  knell,  tolling  ever  more 
deeply  and  mournfully.  The  girl  had  been  greatly  moved 
by  the  last  words  spoken  to  her. 

Mrs.  Brown  stepped  into  the  dwelling,  but  seeing  that  the 
sick  woman,  whom  no  one,  but  Brendice,  imagined  was  so 
near  her  death,  appeared  very  comfortable,  and  that  every 
thing  about  her  was  clean  and  well-ordered,  went  quietly 
away  without  disturbing  her ;  telling  Brendice,  who,  she 
observed,  was  not  as  calm  and  self-possessed  as  she  had  before 
found  her,  that  Mrs.  Maitland  was  very  much  better,  and 
that  Emma  should  come  in  and  spend  the  night  with  her.- 

The  time  passed  on.  The  daylight  was  fading,  and,  at 
length — 

A  darkness  came  before  Brendice's  eyes.  She  lifted  her 
head  to  the  window  which  opened  towards  the  sea,  and  a 
confused  murmur  of  all  discordant  and  strange  noises  rung 
in  her  ears. 

But  the  darkness  could  not  obscure  the  white  crest  of  the 
wave,  as  it  came,  with  awful  majesty,  slowly  rolling  on  ;  and 
those  confused  noises  could  not  shut  out  the  sound  of  that 
dash  against  the  rocks. 

The  tide  was  in !  And  with  its  ebb  a  life  would  pass 
away! 

Brendice  sank  down  on  her  knees  upon  the  floor,  writhing 
in  silent  but  bitter  agony.  She  was  thinking,  however,  of 
herself. 

Her  work  was  done.  Mrs.  Maitland  needed  no  more  care  ; 
and  then  all  at  once  it  flashed  upon  the  mind  of  the  girl,  that 


1 58  By  the  Sea. 

she  had  not  discharged  the  obligation  she  was  under  to  him 
who  had  saved  her  life. 

After  the  first  few  days  of  conflicting  feelings,  she  saw 
now,  it  had  been  no  self-sacrifice  to  serve  Mrs.  Maitland. 
On  the  contrary  it  had  been  a  privilege  and  a  pleasure  to  do 
so,  because  she  was  so  gentle  and  so  good  ;  and  because  she 
had  been  a  mother.  She  had  only  been  actuated  by  pity 
and  respect,  in  her  conduct  towards  her.  And  she  would 
have  loved  her  very  much,  before  this,  but  for  the  memory  of 
that  terrible  crime,  committed  so  long  ago. 

The  fetters  of  that  deep  obligation  were  on  her  hands  still. 

"My  child,  are  you  here?     It  is  becoming  very  dark!" 

The  eyes  were  dimming  with  death,  now ! 

"  I  cannot  see  you,  Brendice  !  Put  your  hands  in  mine, 
and  sing  to  me!"  said  Mrs.  Maitland. 

"I  heard  you  sing  once  ; — it  must  have  been  very  many 
years  ago.  "We  were  walking  along  the  beach,  late  at  night, — 
Luke  and  I.  Oh,  no  !  not  so  very  long  ago  ;  only  the  night 
before  he  was  drowned.  How  strange  it  should  have 
happened  to  be  that  night !  The  remembrance  of  your  song 
has  come  to  me  many  times  since,  in  my  sleep,  and  I  always 
dream  it  is  an  angel  who  is  chanting  it.  The  words  must  be, 
I  think,  a  Litany  for  the  dead. 

"  Perhaps  the  prayers  of  the  living  will  not  aid  us,  after 
we  are  gone,  Brendice  !  yet  it  would  be  pleasant  to  think, 
when  we  are  dying,  that  our  image  will  not  pass  away  from 
the  heart,  nor  our  name  from  the  lips  of  those  we  have  loved, 
but  will  come  up  to  their  remembrance  in  the  most  solemn 
hour,  and  will  be  breathed  into  the  ear  of  God.  The  prayers 
for  the  dead,  I  am  sure,  must  bring  down  a  blessing  on  the 


The  Fcnthftd  Departed.  i5g 

living,  though  I  have  been  taught  to  believe  they  will  not 
profit  the  departed !" 

Brendice  laid  her  trembling  hands  on  Mrs.  Maitland's 
open  palms,  and  stifling  her  emotion  as  well  as  she  was  able, 
sang  in  imperfect  rhymes,  and  broken  measure,  fragments  of 
the  simple  lines  she  had  translated  months  before,  from  an 
old  French  Litany,  one  of  the  last  lessons  assigned  her  by 
her  father : 

"  Mary,  whose  griefs  with  thy  life  were  all  ended, 
Angels,  most  blest,  for  ye  never  offended, 
Patriarchs,  released  from  your  dark,  dreary  prison, 
Prophets,  consoled  by  the  glorious  Vision, 

Pray,  Pray! 
Pray  for  the  souls  of  the  Faithful  Departed  !" 

"  Sing  on !  It  is  very  dark,  I  cannot  see  you  ;  but  I  hear 
your  voice,"  said  Mrs.  Maitland,  "  and  it  is  most  sweet  to 
me !  Did  not  some  one  say,  Amen  ? 

"  There  is  a  footstep  on  the  beach — it  is  my  son's !  He  is 
living.  It  is  I  who  shall  be  on  the  other  side,  waiting  for 
him  ;  and  listening  for  your  voice,  Brendice ! 

"  My  memory  seems  to  be  leaving  me !  What  is  that  song 
which  the  Eedeemed  shall  sing,  my  child  ?" 

The  waves  were  not  washing  the  rocks  now ;  and  with  the 
sound  of  the  retreating  tide,  came  up,  from  far  away  over  the 
water,  the  call  of  a  solitary  sea-bird.  And  then  from  the 
north,  on  the  still  night  air,  floated  down  another  sound. 

It  came  from  the  tall  tower  of  St.  Mary's.  And  Brendice, 
without  thought,  and  as  if  moved  by  a  will  independent  of 
her  own,  blended  her  voice, — so  strangely  sweet  and  solemn 
that  it  was  not  strange  the  dying  woman  thought  it  truly 
the  voice  of  the-  Redeemed, — with  that  silvery  tone  : 


160  By  the  Sea, 

"Hallelujah! 
"  Blessing,  and  honor, 
"And  glory,  and  power, 
"  To  Him,— on  the  Throne 
"  Forever  and  ever  !" 

And  then,  again,  she  took  up  the  chant,  for  the  over 
powering  sensation  would  not  be  shaken  off,  and  the  gripe 
upon  her  hands  was  firmer  ;  the  white  lips  would  never  part 
again! 

"  Ye  whose  steps  were  undented, 
Following  the  Meek  and  Mild  ; 
Ye  who  passed  through  bloody  seas, 
Ye  who  scorned  earth's  vanities  ; 
Ye  who  watched  in  garments  white, 
With  the  Life-lamp  burning  bright ; 
Ye,  who  freed  from  earthly  sin, 
'  To  the  joy '  have  entered  in  ; 
Pray,  Pray! 
Pray  for  the  souls  of  the  Faithful  Departed  1" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


BACK   TO   THE   OLD   HOME. 

HAT   strange    sensation    would    not  immediately 
pass  away. 

What  kept  her  there,  for  more  than  an  hour, 
kneeling  silently  beside  that  bed,  with  her  hands  still  lying 
in  the  clasp  which  was  now  stiffening  about  them,  with  no 
paralyzing  emotion  of  fear  or  dread  upon  her,  and  not  without 
vigor  of  thought  and  her  usual  strength  of  body,  but  with  a 
feeling  of  solemn  calmness  and  repose,  as  welcome  to  the 
mental  as  to  the  physical  system,  and  so  welcome  to  both 
that  it  seemed  the  lapse  of  time  could  not  diminish  the 
pleasure,  —  she  could  not  tell. 

Brendice  wondered  if  that  calmness  and  repose  was  not 
such  as  may  rest  upon  the  dead,  while  they  are  waiting  till 
ages  shall  pass  away,  and  the  end  of  all  earthly  things  shall 
come. 

It  was  a  soft,  still  night.  There  were  many  clouds  in  the 
sky  ;  some  very  thin  and  vapory,  and  some,  though  they 

presaged  no  immediate  storm,  were  so  heavy,  that,  in  sweep- 

(161) 


1 62  By  the  Sea. 

ing  over  the  crescent  moon,  they  quite  shut  out  the  silvery 
light,  for  many  minutes  together. 

One  of  these  thick  clouds  was  just  slowly  passing,  and 
through  a  rift,  for  a  brief  space  of  time,  the  moonlight 
gleamed. 

Brendice  had  thought  she  caught  the  sound  of  footsteps. 
It  was  a  heavy  tread,  though  the  person  tried  to  walk  lightly. 
She  lifted  her  head  at  the  instant  that  the  rift  passed  over 
the  face  of  the  moon,  and  taking  her  hands  gently  from  the 
cold  clasp  about  them,  drew  back  into  the  shadow,  as  the 
light,  now  almost  unobscured,  fell  on  the  white  face  which 
lay  upon  the  pillow. 

Hours  before,  Brendico  had  drawn  Mrs.  Maitland's  bed 
out  near  the  windows  which  opened  to  the  south  and  east. 
She  would  not  have  the  dying  woman's  last  look  at  nature  to 
be  on  the  dry,  withered  grass,  the  naked  fields,  and  the  dis 
tant  hills,  so  sadly  gay  with  autumn's  sickly  bloom,  and  all 
speaking  so  forcibly  of  dissolution  and  decay  ;  but  on  the 
ever  vigorous,  ever  active,  eternal  sea ! 

Very  fair  lay  that  white  face  in  the  soft  moonlight.  A 
calm,  pleasant  smile  was  on  the  features,  and  the  eyes  were 
closed  as  in  sleep. 

Again  she  heard  that  tread!  and  there,  standing  but  a 
few  feet  from  the  window,  furtively  peering  through  the  vines 
whose  clustering  green  leaves  were  yet  but  slightly  touched 
by  the  frost,  was  the  face  of  a  man.  He  was  holdirg  some 
thing  in  his  arms,  carefully  and  tenderly  ;  and,  as  he  drew  a 
step  nearer,  she  perceived  that  his  burden  was  a  slumbering 
child. 

The  countenance  of   the  dead,  which  looked  so  like  the 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  163 

face  of  peaceful  sleep,  was  fully  revealed  to  those  eager, 
questioning  eyes  ;  but  Brendice,  crouching  on  the  floor  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  whore  the  shadow  fell  about  her 
form,  could  not  be  plainly  observed  ;  the  outlines  of  her 
figure,  and  a  portion  of  her  dress,  only,  being  discernible. 

The  form  and  countenance  of  the  man  were  clearly  enough 
seen  by  her,  however,  though  for  a  moment  she  could 
scarcely  believe  that  she  was  not  dreaming ;  for  that  man 
was  Luke  Maitland ! 

Apparently  assured  that  the  occupant  of  the  bed  was 
soundly  sleeping,  and  knowing  that  his  mother's  slumbers 
were  never  very  easily  disturbed,  he  drew  nearer  to  the  win 
dow  and  spoke  softly. 

The  rift  had  passed  over  the  moon  now,  and  between  it 
and  the  horizon  was  a  great  sea  of  billowy  clouds,  each 
broader  and  denser  than  its  predecessor. 

"  Emma, — Emma  Brown,  is  that  you  ?"  he  asked  ;  "  don't 
be  frightened  !  It  is  I, — Luke !  Come  around  to  the  door  ; 
I  wish  to  talk  with  you.  But  mother  must  not  know  I  am 
here,  and  no  one  but  you,  Emma !  I  went  down  to  your 
father's  house  to  see  if  I  could  find  you  without  being  ob 
served  by  any  one  else,  for  I  had  learned  the  boys  were  all 
out  with  their  boats  to-night  ;  and  I  heard  some  saying,  as 
I  stood  near  the  open  window,  that  you  were  here.  Your 
mother  was  telling  some  stranger  that  Mrs.  Maitland  had 
been  sick,  though  she  was  much  better  now,  and  that  you 
had  gone  over  to  pass  the  night  with  her.  But  come  around 
to  the  door!" 

Brendice  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

She  looked  up  to  the  sky,  and  unknowing  why,  saw,  with 


164  By  the  Sea. 

satisfaction,  that  for  half  an  hour,  most  likely,  the  moon 
would  not  look  out  again  from  its  thick  veil  of  clouds  ;  and 
then  she  went  to  the  open  door  before  which  Luke  was 
standing. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  not  frightened,  Emma!"  he  said,  trying 
to  find  her  hand,  and,  failing  to  do  so,  placing  his  fingers 
upon  her  shoulder.  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  be,  for  I  sup 
pose  that  you  and  every  one  else  about  here  thought  I  was 
dead.  I  do  not  wish  to  undeceive  any  one  now,  least  of  all, 
my  mother. 

"  I  am  going  away  again.  Two  hours  hence  I  hope  to  be 
on  ship-board,  and  she  would  have  over  again  all  the  old 
grief  of  a  separation  from  me,  with  far  deeper  bitterness 
than  before. 

"  I  have  only  come  here  to  bring  this  child  to  her  ;  and 
you  must  tell  her,  Emma,  that  one  to  whom  she  is  very  dear, 
wishes  her  to  care  for  it. 

"  She  will  not  trouble  you  with  questions,  and  no  one  else 
will  be  aware  that  you  know  anything  about  him. 

"Tell  my  mother  that  the  little  fellow's  parentage  is 
respectable.  She  will  find  his  baptismal  name,  and  that  of 
his  mother,  on  a  slip  of  paper  I  have  fastened  to  his  dress, 
not  knowing  that  I  should  have  opportunity  to  put  him  in 
your  arms.  Tell  her  that  he  who  trusts  him  to  her,  holds 
the  child's  kind  treatment  and  careful  training  as  the  first 
thing  in  life. 

"  You  will  not  betray  me,  Emma !  It  is  said  I  have  been 
guilty  of  a  great  crime,"  continued  the  young  man,  now  with 
much  emotion.  "I  know  my  mother  does  not  believe  it, 
though  it  would  kill  her,  if  I  had  a  public  trial.  I  hope  you 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  i65 

do  not ;  but  my  life  might  be  in  danger,  if  it  were  known 
that  I  was  in  the  neighborhood.  Promise  me  no  one  shall 
know  it,  through  yourself!" 

Those  calm  and  solemn  feelings,  so  strange  and  so  sweet, 
which  had  been  pervading  her  soul  for  the  last  two  hours, 
and  which  she  had  wished  might  forever  remain,  had  all  fled, 
as  quickly  as  the  lightest  feather  is  blown  away  by  the 
breeze,  at  the  sound  of  that  voice  ;  and  Brendice's  heart  was 
so  bounding  with  joy,  that  she  feared  her  emotion  would 
betray  her. 

His  life  was  then,  perhaps,  in  her  hand ! 

The  question  did  not  come  up  in  that  moment  :  What 
crime  had  he  been  guilty  of  ?  She  thought  only  this  :  Now 
that  debt  can  be  paid ! 

She  conquered  her  emotion,  and  whispered  so  softly  that 
the  young  man  scarcely  caught  her  words — so  softly  that  he 
did  not  suspect  it  could  be  any  one  but  Emma  Brown  who 
uttered  them  : 

"I  promise!"  and  she  stretched  out  her  hands  and  took 
the  sleeping  child. 

The  little  creature  partially  awoke  and  threw  up  his  arms, 
burying  one  chubby  fist  and  fat  wrist  in  Brendice's  loosened 
hair,  and  twining  the  other  about  her  neck,  breathing  a  little 
short  bird  note  of  intense  satisfaction ;  and  then  he  was 
again  in  a  sound  sleep. 

Brendice  had  taken  advantage  of  Luke's  sudden  retreat 
from  the  door,  when  he  thought  the  child  was  waking,  and 
stepped  back  quickly  into  the  room,  sitting  down  beside  the 
dead  woman  ;  and  the  young  man,  seeing,  indistinctly,  the 
outlines  of  her  figure  against  the  window,  and  fearful  of 


1 66  By  the  Sea. 

disturbing  his  mother,  remained  silent  at  the  doorway, 
wondering  why  Emma  had  left  him  so  suddenly  ;  but  rather 
glad  that  she  had  done  so. 

Had  she  remained  longer,  gratitude  for  the  promise  she 
had  so  readily,  and  without  questioning  him,  made,  might 
have  led  him  to  speak  words  which  he  had  never  intended  to 
utter,  for  Mrs.  Maitland  had  been  altogether  mistaken  in 
supposing  that  her  son  had  any  other  than  brotherly  affection 
for  the  sprightly  little  girl  who  had  been  his  playmate  from 
their  childhood. 

Luke  waited  but  for  the  briefest  instant  near  the  door,  to 
see  if  the  girl  intended  to  return  to  him,  and  then  he  walked 
lightly  and  rapidly  away  ;  not  directly  to  the  spot  where  he 
had  left  his  boat,  however,  but  down  along  the  beach,  past 
the  fish-houses,  until  he  reached  the  most  distant — that 
which  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  others. 

There  he  paused ;  looking  up,  through  the  darkness,  to 
the  dwelling,  thinking  of  the  voice  he  heard  the  last  night  he 
had  stood  there,  with  his  mother  leaning  on  his  arm  ;  and 
wondering  why,  though  the  questions  were  on  his  lips  all 
the  time  he  was  talking  as  he  supposed  to  Emma  Brown,  he 
had  asked  her  nothing  about  Brendice  Du  Bois. 

All  was  silent  about  the  dwelling ;  and  the  little  faint, 
flickering  light,  he  had  always  before,  at  all  hours  of  the 
night — and  how  many  times  his  eyes  had  sought  it ! — seen 
there,  had  disappeared  now ;  and  Luke  turned  and  walked 
away,  without  looking  behind  him. 

When  the  moonbeams  again  shone  out  upon  the  sea,  his 
boat,  guided  by  the  beacon  light,  was  half-way  up  to  the 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  167 

Port,  from  which  a  ship  was  to  sail,  the  next  morning,  for  an 
Italian  city.' 

Only  one  thought,  as  has  been  said,  had  passed  through 
Brendice's  mind,  while  listening  to  Luke. 

After  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  had  ceased  to  reach  her 
ear,  however,  she  remembered  with  satisfaction  that  the 
desire  might  be  fulfilled  which  Mrs.  Maitland  had  expressed, 
almost  with  her  latest  breath,  when  the  idea  occurred  to  her 
that  her  son  was  still  living.  Luke  would  not  learn,  most 
likely,  for  some  time,  that  his  mother  was  dead.  When  he 
had  spoken  of  returning  to  the  ship,  he  made  some  remark 
which  she  did  not  fully  understand,  but  which  she  thought 
had  reference  to  an  anticipated  long  absence  from  the 
neighborhood. 

But  the  next  thought  which  came  to  her  was  a  far  less 
agreeable  one.  What  was  she  to  do  with  that  child  whose 
little  head  was  now  pillowed  upon  her  shoulder,  and  whose 
soft  curls,  so  pale  that  the  moonlight  which  now  came 
brightly  shining  through  the  window,  was  changing  them  to 
shining  silver,  were  mingling  with  her  own  dark  hair,  while 
the  warm,  sweet  breath  fell  upon  her  cheek ;  and  who  only 
clung  to  her  more  closely  as  she  gently  attempted  to  remove 
the  encircling  arm  from  her  neck,  in  order  to  place  him  upon 
her  bed  ? 

Why  had  she  taken  him  at  all  in  her  arms,  and  what  was 
she  now  to  do  with  him  ? 

She  looked  for  the  slip  of  paper  which  Luke  had  said  was 
fastened  to  his  dress.  It  was  not  to  be  found  ;  but  a  slight 
rent  in  the  soft  fabric  showed  where  it  might  have  been 
torn  away. 


168  By  the  Sea. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  decide,  however,  what  she  should  do 
with  him.  Emma  Brown  would  soon  be  in. 

The  night  was  not  far  advanced.  It  was  very  little  past 
nine  o'clock  yet.  She  had  just  stepped  in  a  moment,  on  her 
way  to  Mrs.  Maitland 's,  Brendice  rightly  conjectured,  to  see 
if  Miss  Jones  was  quite  well,  and  if  she  was  not  rather  lonely 
to-night,  as  William  was  out  on  the  water  with  his  boat  ; 
and  her  minute  had  stretched  out  beyond  an  hour. 

When  she  came  in,  Brendice  would  tell  her  that  some  one, 
not  far  from  the  time  Mrs.  Maitland  died,  had  left  the  child 
at  the  door. 

She  had  heard  footsteps,  but  saw  no  one  going  away  from 
the  dwelling.  She  could  not  conjecture  whose  child  it  was, 
but  then  she  knew  very  few  people  in  the  neighborhood. 
Did  Emma  recognize  it?  And  when  she  returned  home  to 
inform  her  mother  that  Mrs.  Maitland  was  dead,  would  she 
ask  her  father  what  should  be  done  with  the  child  ? 

That  was  what  she  would  say  to  Emma,  and  no  one  could 
compel  her  to  tell  more. 

It  could  not  be  expected  that  she  would  be  very  observant 
of  anything  besides  Mrs.  Maitland,  when  the  woman  was 
dying,  and  Brendice  was  there  alone  with  her  ;  and  if  there 
should  be  a  little  confusion  in  her  story,  no  one  would  think 
strange  of  it,  at  such  a  time  as  that  solemn  hour. 

The  child,  of  course,  would  not  be  recognized  by  Miss 
Brown,  nor  by  any  one  else  ;  .and  Emma's  father  could  send 
the  babe  to  the  almshouse,  or  to  the  Asylum  at  N . 

This  little  creature,  whose  arm  was  around  her  neck, — 
whose  kind  treatment  and  careful  training  Luke  Maitland, 
who,  when  he  was  a  boy  of  sixteen,  had  saved  her  own  life, 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  169 

had  said  was  the  first  thing,  on  -earth,  to  him — this  child 
would  have  been  so  tenderly  cared  for  by  that  gentle  being 
lying  there  so  white  and  still !  For  aught  Brendice  knew, 
the  pure  spirit  was  now  hovering  over  her  with  a  patience 
which  freedom  from  its  earthly  tenement  could  hardly  bring 
nearer  to  perfection  ;  and  a  faith  which  often  filled  the  girl 
with  fear,  so  undermining  did  it  seem  to  be  to  that  purpose 
she  tried  to  establish,  immovably,  in  her  heart, — waiting 
with  patience  and  faith  for  the  good  to  triumph. 

Then  she  began  to  think  of  her  own  unloved,  uncared  for 
childhood.  But  this  did  not  soften  her  heart  with  respect 
to  the  little  one. 

She  felt  very  bitterly  towards  the  world. 

The  people  at  The  Sands  were  beginning  to  be  kind  to  her, 
and  were  as  friendly  as  she  would  allow  them  to  be  ;  but 
how  long  had  it  been  since  they  had  regarded  her  as  half  an 
idiot,  and  had  talked  of  sending  her  to  the  almshouse? 
No  one  but  Mrs.  Maitland  had  showed  her  kindness,  or  tried 
to  assist  her  (Brendice  did  not  know  bow  many  had  gone 
with  pitying  hearts  and  willing  hands  to  her  door  on  the 
day  she  went  over  to  The  Rocks)  when  she  found  herself  all 
alone  in  the  world,  until  it  had  become  very  apparent  that 
she  was  entirely  competent  to  take  care  of  herself. 

The  old  gentleman  still  at  the  Ocean  House  had,  a  few 
days  after  the  event  happened,  sent  a  kind  note  to  Mrs. 
Maitland  and  herself,  inquiring  if  he  could  do  anything  for 
those  who,  it  was  supposed,  had  been  made  childless  and 
fatherless  by  the  sad  affair  in  which  his  young  friends  had 
been  indirectly  interested.  And  somebody  had  told  her 
that  when  her  father  had  first  arrived  in  the  neighborhood, 

8 


170  By  the  Sea. 

fifteen  years  before,  there,  was  more  than  one  woman  who 
would  willingly  have  received  her  into  her  family. 

Whoever  had  wished  to  do  so,  might  manifest  her  unexer- 
cised  benevolence  now,  by  taking  care  of  this  child ;  or  Mr. 
Brown  might  send  him  to  the  almshouse. 

With  a  firmer  hand  she  released  her  hair  from  his  cling 
ing  fingers,  and  removed  his  arm  from  her  neck,  preparatory 
to  laying  him  upon  a  bed,  resolutely  turning  her  face  from 
him,  though  low  half-smothered  sobs  were  bursting  from 
his  lips. 

There  was  a  work  before  her  far  different  from  the  rearing 
of  a  little  innocent  babe.  She  owed  nothing  to  any  one, 
now  that  debt  to  Luke  Maitland  was  discharged.  If  her 
silence  ensured  his  safety — 

Safety  from  what  ? 

Brendice  was  standing  by  the  doorway,  looking  out  to  see 
if  Miss  Brown  was  coming,  as  the  question  arose  in  her 
mind  :  If  he  had  been  innocent,  as  she  had  not  doubted  he 
was,  of  the  crime  of  which  it  was  supposed  he  was  guilty,  why 
had  he  not,  when  referring  to  it,  denied  the  commission  of 
the  deed  ? 

She  laid  the  child  down,  where  she  stood,  so  gentle,  how 
ever,  as  not  entirely  to  wake  it  from  its  slumbers,  and 
then  she  staggered  back  into  the  room  and  sank  down, 
without  strength,  beside  the  bed  of  the  dead  woman,  not 
fainting,  but  well  nigh  paralyzed. 

It  was  thus  she  was  found  by  Emma  Brown  and  Miss 
Sally  Jones,  whom  the  suddenly  timid  and  thoughtful  girl 
had  persuaded  to  accompany  her  to  Mrs.  Maitland's  dwell 
ing,  as  she  did  not  like  to  be  out  so  late  alone,  offering  to 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  171 

return,  after  they  should  have  stopped  a  few  minutes  with 
the  sick  woman,  and  pass  the  night  with  Miss  Sally,  she 
would  be  so  lonely,  in  William's  absence. 

As  Miss  Jones,  who,  on  looking  through  the  open  window, 
saw  only  the  two  women,  whose  positions  told  her  plainly 
enough  what  had  happened,  stepped  directly  to  the  bedside, 
and  lifted  Brendice  from  the  floor,  supposing  the  cause  of 
her  extreme  physical  weakness  and  mental  agitation  to  be 
only  induced  by  the  presence  of  death  in  the  apartment,  and 
the  loneliness  of  her  situation,  and  thinking  of  nothing  but 
soothing  her,  with  kind  and  gentle  words, — it  was  Emma 
who  discovered  the  child,  and  whose  account  of  the  affair 
went  through  the  neighborhood.  The  girl  had  a  very  vivid 
imagination,  and  the  story  lost  nothing  by  circulation. 

Brendice  Du  Bois  was  not  troubled  with  questions  con 
cerning  the  child*,  for  no  one  supposed  that  she  knew  any 
thing  about  him. 

Not  even  when  the  funeral, — which  took  place  the  next 
day,  was  over,  and  Mr.  Brown  returned  to  the  dwelling  to 
tell  her  that  Mrs.  Maitland  had  bequeathed  to  her  all  the 
little  property  she  possessed,  and  to  take  the  child  away,  as 
she  expected  he  would,  to  send  it  to  the  almshouse — were 
any  questions  asked  of  her ;  but  the  girl  said  the  little  one 
might  remain  with  her,  for  the  present,  at  least,  for  if  Mrs. 
Maitland  was  alive  she  undoubtedly  would  try  to  take  care 
jf  the  child,  as  ha  had  bean  found  at  her  door  ;  and  if  she, 
B_-eadic3,  accepted  what  was  given  to  her,  it  would  be  solely 
for  the  purpose  of  assisting  her  in  his  support. 

The  neighbors  only  said  the  poor  friendless  girl  wanted 
some  object  in  the  world  to  love  and  care  for;  though  they  were 


172  By  the  Sea. 

very  sure  she  would  soon  find  that  the  trouble  and  expense 
of  the  child  far  more  than  counterbalanced  the  pleasure 
which  the  presence  of  the  little  fellow,  pretty  and  interesting 
as  he  was,  could  possibly  afford  her. 

Whatever  Brendice  thought  of  that,  however,  he  remained 
with  her,  though  his  support  was  not,  in  any  measure,  de 
rived  from  the  little  bequest  made  her  by  Mrs.  Maitland. 

On  the  morning  after  the  funeral,  the  girl  rose  very  early 
from  the  couch  where  she  had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and 
rolling  together  the  few  simple,  but  pretty  articles  of  clo 
thing  she  had  purchased  with  the  avails  of  her  labor  while 
she  was  with  Mrs.  Maitland,  and  attiring  herself  in  her  worn, 
scanty  fishing-dress,  brushing  her  hair  back  from  her  face, 
and  carelessly  knotting  it  in  the  old  unbecoming  way,  and 
lifting  the  child  almost  savagely  in  her  arms,  went  out  from 
the  house.  She  locked  the  door  behind  her,  and  then 
walked  down  over  the  ledge  and  along  the  white  sand  to 
wards  her  old  home. 

The  Indian  summer  had  passed  away  on  the  night  Mrs. 
Maitland  died.  This  morning,  a  cold,  damp  wind  was  blow 
ing  briskly  from  the  north-east,  each  gust  which  swept  over 
the  hills  bearing  away  such  showers  of  the  bright-hued 
leaves,  fast  changing  now,  that  the  forest  seemed  fading  be 
fore  the  gray  morning  as  quickly  as  the  gorgeously-tinted 
sunset  sky  at  the  swift  coming  of  night. 

Brendice  turned  her  face,  which  had  grown  thin  and  pale 
during  the  past  few  days,  up  towards  the  hill-side.  Under 
the  shelter  of  some  tall,  white  pines,  a  spot  she  herself  had 
selected,  was  the  grave,  beside  which  she  was  standing 
yesterday  as  chief  mourner.  She  would  have  walked  up 


JBack  to  the  old  Home.  173 

there  this  morning,  and  replaced  the  sods  upon  the  yellow 
sand  with  her  own  hands,  only  the  air  was  so  cold  and 
damp  that  the  child  must  not  be  exposed  to  it  for  such  a 
length  of  time  as  the  long  walk,  and  the  sad  task  to  be 
performed,  would  require. 

He  was  nestling  very  close  to  her  now,  and  the  little 
cheeks  looked  blue  and  pinched  in  the  chilly  air,  and  Bren- 
dice,  as  she  glanced  down  into  the  face,  as  the  lips  attempted 
to  syllable  a  name  he  had  many  times  tried  to  utter,  but, 
fortunately,  in  such  an  indistinct  manner  that  no  one  but 
herself  conjectured  upon  whom  he  was  calling — thought  how 
much  better  it  would  be  if  the  little  fragile  flower  was  lying 
beneath  the  coffin  lid  on  that  still,  white  breast,  than  strug 
gling  to  find  life  in  the  cold,  hard  soil  into  which  it  had  been 
so  strangely  transplanted. 

No  tender  emotion  for  the  child,  she  believed,  could  ever 
enter  her  heart.  No  dawning  love  for  the  sweet  young  face 
and  little  winning  ways,  or  pity  for  the  utter  friendlessness 
which,  but  for  her,  he  might  very  soon  learn  was  the  portion 
of  his  childhood,  induced  Brendice  to  take  charge  of  the 
boy. 

Not  these,  but  that  another  item  could  be  set  down  in  her 
account  against  those  whose  crimes  had  go  embittered  her 
life. 

There  were  two  of  them  now ! 

She  looked  back  from  the  little  face,  up  again  towards 
the  distant  hills  which  the  deepening  mist  was  fast  shutting 
out  from  her  sight. 

When  the  long  cold  storm,  now  just  coming  on,  should 
have  passed  away,  only  the  clustering  pines,  whose  tall 


174  By  the  Sea. 

branches  seemed  guiding  the  thoughts  up  to  heaven,  and 
whose  low,  sweet,  unbroken  song  was  so  full  of  words  of 
hope  and  faith — fit  monuments  for  the  gsntle  sleeper  resting 
there,  in  her  white  robes,  made  ready,  waiting  till  the  mar 
riage  of  the  Lamb  shall  come  ;  only  the  denuded  branches 
of  the  wide  forest,  the  brown,  leaf-strown  earth,  and  here 
and  there  a  clump  of  the  sombre  evergreens  could  be  seen. 

And  she  thought  how  quickly  the  pale,  bright  beauty  of 
the  one  green  sppt  in  the  desert  of  her  existence  had  worse 
than  withered. 

She  would  have  fed  the  fountain  which  leaped  up  from 
that  solitary  oasis  with  the  springs  of  her  life  ;  she  would 
have  deepened  its  verdure  with  her  blood ;  but  sud 
denly,  in  a  night,  a  deadlier  growth  than  the  fabled  upas- 
tree  had  sprung  up  in  that  unnatural  soil,  and  beneath  the 
pendant  leaves,'  dripping  with  poisonous  dews,  she  must  for 
ever  stand. 

Luke  Maitland  had  referred  to  the  now  wide-spread  sus 
picion  that  he  was  guilty  of  her  father's  death  ;  and  without 
uttering  a  word  of  self-justification,  or  saying  he  could  give 
the  best  proof  that  the  suspicion  was  not  well  founded,  had 
only  whispered,  "You  will  promise  not  to  betray  ma  ?" 

And  Brendice,  knowing  he  believed  that  he  was  addressing 
another,  yet  speaking  for  herself,  had  answered  : 

"I  promise!"  thus  severing  the  right  arm  of  her  revenge. 

"No,  no!"  she  murmured,  quickly  and  audibly,  as  the 
thought  had  come  to  her  ;  and  she  turned  her  eyes  ocean- 
ward  to  where  a  deeper  haze  seemed  settling  down  upon  the 
horizon.  I  am  bound  by  no  promise  there  ;  and  my  arm 
ehall  be  as  strong  and  firm,  when  once  it  is  raised  to  strike, 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  175 

as  his  han.d  was  awkward  and  unequal  to  sustain,  when  the 
lives  of  my  mother  and  her  babe  were  entrusted  to  his  care." 

The  belief  was  continually  fastening  itself  more  firmly  on 
her  mind,  though  there  seemed  no  reason  why  it  should  be 
so,  that  the  lighthouse  keeper  was  the  man  whom  her  father, 
for  so  many  years,  had  been  waiting  to  find. 

She  hoped  it  was  so,  and  now,  very  soon,  she  woiild  know  ; 
for  the  purpose  of  speedy  revenge  had  been  settling  upon 
her  all  through  the  past  night,  as  the  long  tedious  hours 
dragged  on.  She  was  lying  upon  her  pillow  ;  but  many 
times  she  had  put  away  from  her  with  a  firm  hand  the  little 
curly  head  that  tried  to  nestle  so  closely  to  her  side  ;  and 
her  eyes  had  been  fixed  on.  that  Medusa-like  beacon-light, 
flaming  up  brightly  against  the  cold  blue  sky. 

Brendice  had  drawn  near  her  home. 

She  had  been  walking  very  slowly,  pausing  often  to  look 
away  up  to  the  hills  on  the  one  hand  and  the  ocean  on  the 
other,  and  the  cool,  damp  air  was  chilling  her  through.  The 
shawl  she  had  wrapped  about  her  was  very  soon  taken  off 
her  shoulders,  and  folded  about  the  child.  Her  thoughts 
were  so  busy,  however,  that  she  had  not  heeded  the  cold, 
or  the  weight  of  the  little  boy  upon  her  arm  ;  nor  did  she 
heed  the  footsteps  which  had  been  hesitatingly  echoing  hers 
for  many  minutes,  until  some  one  was  close  beside  her,  and 
a  frank,  pleasant,  but  now  slightly  nervous  voice,  pro 
nounced  her  name. 

The  voice  had  said  "  Brendice  !"  and  the  repetition  of  the 
name,  coupled  with  another  word — an  expletive  which  would 
have  been  uttered  very  softly,  was  on  the  sp3aker's  lips. 
But  when  she  turned  her  head,  and  looked  into  the  face 


176  By  the  Sea. 

which  sought  hers,  the  young  man  started  with  surprise, 
and  called  her  Miss  Du  Bois. 

William  Jones  was,  however,  not  to  be  so  easily  moved 
from  the  purpose  he  had,  for  months  pagt,  been  cherishing, 
in  relation  to  the  girl ;  and,  besides,  as  he  glanced  at  that 
countenance  a  second  time,  he  saw  there  was  an  expression 
on  the  features  which  astonishment  and  displeasure  at  the 
suddenness  and  familiarity  of  his  address  had  not  called 
there. 

"  My  aunt  went  over  to  your  house  an  hour  since,  Miss  Du 
Bois,"  he  said,  "  but  the  door  was  locked.  She  thought  you 
would  be  lonely  there,  and  she  wished  to  ask  you  to  come 
and  stay  with  us,  you  and  the  little  boy. 

"As  she  could  not  find  you,  I  came  out  for  that  purpose, 
and  to  repeat  what  she  wished  to  say,  and  to  speak  to  you 
on  my  own.  account,  too  :  to  tell  you  what  I  have  been  wishing 
to  say  ever  since — ever  since  your  father  was  drowned  ;  only 
I  could  not  ask  you  to  leave  Mrs.  Maitland.  Will  you  come 
to  our  house,  and  make  it,  henceforth,  your  home  ? 

"  It  shall  be  a  nice,  pleasant  home  to  you,  and  this  that  I 
see  you  have  returned  to,  is  very  dreary  and  destitute. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me,  Brendice,  and  be  a  daughter  tc  my 
kind  aunt,  who,  these  two  months  past,  has  been  learning  to 
think  more  of  you  than  she  does  of  any  girl  at  The  Sands  ? 
And — let  me  take  the  little  boy,  and  put  your  arm  in  mine, 
dear  Brendice — you  are  very  cold  and  weary — and  walk  away 
home  with  me,  to  become  the  cherished  wife  of  one  who  has 
known,  for  a  long  time,  how  much  superior  in  good  " — 

"  Hush,  William !"  she  said,  holding  the  child  which  he 
was  trying  to  take  from  her,  firmly  in  her  arms. 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  177 

"  You  know  not  what  you  are  saying  !  You  and  your  aunt 
are  sorry  for  me,  and  I  thank  you  both.  But  I  need  no  pity !" 
And  though  a  tear  was  trembling  in  her  eye,  the  calm,  stony 
expression  on  her  features  deepened. 

"I  need  no  pity  ;  and  the  words  of  affection  I  can  never 
listen  to  from  any  one  !  They  are  not  for  such  an  un 
womanly  nature  as~  mine  is  now,  and  must  always  be.  But 
if  you  will,  you  can,  perhaps,  do  me  a  great  and  invaluable 
service,  William  Jones !" 

She  was  gazing,  abstractedly  now,  away  over  to  The  Rocks, 
and  he  did  not  see  her  face. 

"  What  is  it,  Brendice  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly,  convinced  that, 
for  the  present,  at  least,  he  must  relinquish  the  plan  he  had 
been  so  long  cherishing. 

William  Jones  was  high-minded  and  honorable,  simple 
fisherman  though  he  was. 

His  strong  feelings,  and  the  purposes  to  which  they  gave 
rise,  quite  too  earnest,  sometimes,  for  his  peace  of  mind,  he 
never  suffered  to  interfere  with  his  sense  of  justice  ;  and  so 
knowing  what  he  supposed  no  third  person  did,  and,  perhaps, 
made  more  keen -sighted  by  his  own  emotions,  seeing  how 
patiently  another  was  waiting  for  the  time  to  come  when 
he  could  seek  the  acquaintance  of  the  French  girl,  he  had 
himself  kept  silent,  till  he  fancied  all  obstacles  were  removed. 

Years  later,  after  his  aunt  had,  of  her  own  free  choice, 
found  another  home,  William  had  his  reward  for  his  self- 
abnegation,  in  the  love  of  a  warm-hearted,  sensible  girl,  far 
better  suited  to  him  than  she  would  have  been  whom  he  had 
first  chosen  ;  or  the  little  frivolous  Emma  Brown,  who  had 
never  been  his  choice. 

8* 


178  By  the  Sea. 

Brendice  was  looking  towards  The  Hocks,  quite  shut  out, 
now,  from  view,  by  the  thickening  mist. 

"  If  you  will,  you  can,  perhaps,  render  me  a  great  service, 
William  !"  she  had  said. 

And  he  replied,  with  a  question  asked  so  earnestly  that  it 
was  a  promise  to  follow  her  bidding,  whatever  that  might 
be  :  "  What  is  it,  Brendice  ?" 

She  did  not  immediately  answer,  for  she  was  replying  to 
another  question,  silently  asked  of  herself  : 

Should  she  suffer  any  one,  in  the  remotest  degree,  to  aid 
her  in  the  work  she  was  contemplating  ? 

And  then  she  remembered  that  lately,  many  times,  when 
she  had  been  looking  out  over  the  waters  to  the  Convoy 
light,  a  film  had  crept  over  her  eyes. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  imaginary  ;  for  when  she  glanced 
up  to  the  red  light  away  to  the  north,  her  vision  had  never 
failed ;  though,  sometimes,  as  she  looked  there,  it  was 
through  dropping  tears  ;  for  then  the  sweet  tones  of  St. 
Mary's  bell  would  softly  fall  on  her  ear,  and  she  remembered, 
that  mild,  bright  afternoon  in  early  autumn — St.  Michael's 
day  it  was,  five  years  ago  : 

That  day  on  which  she  had  tried  to  cast  off  the  heavy 
burden  that  always  rested  on  her  shoulders,  and  in  seeking 
to  rid  herself  of  which,  she  had  drawn  down  a  mountain  of 
woe  upon  her  head. 

Yes,  she  would  let  him  aid  her,  in  this ! 

"  Do  you  often  look  over  there — to  the  islands  ?  I  mean, 
over  to  the  lighthouse,  when  the  lamps  are  burning  ?" 

"Yes!"  he  said,  at  a  loss  to  conjecture  what  possible 
connection  his  doing  so  could  have  with  what  she  might 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  179 

require  of  him.     And  as  Brendice  waited  for  a  moment,  after 
he  had  spoken,  he  repeated  his   affirmative,  and  continued  : 

"Very  often,  and  I  always  thiuk  of  the  keeper  there,  living 
in  such  a  lonely  way,  and  feel  very  sorry  for  him. 

"  He  has  not  been  over  to  the  mainland,  now,  for  fifteen 
years.  I  used  to  see  him  occasionally  before  that  time,  and 
he  had  always  a  pleasant  word  even  for  such  a  little  chap  as 
I  was  then.  It  is  said  he  was  always  somewhat  eccentric  ; 
but  after  that  young  lady — Miss  Rachel,  they  called  her,  who 
lived  with  the  old  miser  at  the  place  the  fishermen  know  as 
The  Stairs,  because  there  is  a  flight  of  nice  stone  steps 
running  down  from  the  old  man's  grounds  into  the  water — 
I  suppose  you  have  not  seen  them,  as  you  have  never  been 
up  to  the  Port — after  the  morning  when  the  young  lady 
who,  no  doubt,  had  had  a  hard  time  of  it  with  her  guardian, 
went  down  the  steps  and  away  in  the  boat  with  her  lover, 
young  Captain  Singleton,  whom  she  married  and  accompanied 
on  his  voyage  to  Italy,  the  Commodore  never  went  to  N — 
again.  It  was  said,  after  she  had  gone,  that  Mr.  Aden  was 
in  love  with  the  girl  himself,  though  no  one  had  suspected 
it;  and  took  her  elopement  much  more  to  heart  than  the  old 
man  did ;  for  he,  though  he  was  very  angry  at  first,  was 
soon  ready  to  admit  that  it  was  the  best  thing  the  girl  could 
do,  to  marry  the  man  who  loved  her." 

William  said  this  with  considerable  feeling. 

"  The  old  gentleman  went  away  soon  after  the  lady  was 
married,  to  reside  with  his  relatives  ;  but  his  sister  is  dead, 
and  her  daughters  have  husbands  now,  and  he  has  returned 
to  his  place  here  again,  looking  ten  years  younger  then  he 
did  when  he  quitted  it,  my  aunt  thinks." 


I  So  By  the  Sea. 

The  young  man  had  said  this,  because  Brendice  was  not 
yet  ready  to  answer  his  question,  but  stood,  looking  away 
into  the  sea,  in  her  old  abstracted  manner  ;  bat  when  he 
added,  still  simply,  for  the  sake  of  saying  something  : 

"  Mr.  Aden  has  never  been  over  to  the  mainland  since, 
though  I  have  heard  that  Mr.  Hall,  that  is  the  old  gentle 
man's  name,  and  it  is  he  who  has  been  stopping  at  the 
Ocean  House  this  season,  and  is  there  still,  is  determined 
that  the  keeper  shall  give  up  his  post  at  the  Convoy,  and 
come  over  and  live  with  him.  He  has  built  him  a  nice 
residence  this  summer,  and  " — 

Brendice  turned  and  looked  in  his  face  so  suddenly  and 
earnestly  that  the  young  man  paused  abruptly. 

"Is  he — the  keeper,  going  to  resign  his  post?"  she  asked. 

Jones  had  heard  that  he  would  not  leave  his  post  unless 
he  was  discharged  ;  and  he  would  not  be  likely  to  receive  a 
dismissal,  after  performing  the  duties  so  faithfully  as  he  had 
done.  And  he  had  never  been  a  politician. 

"  That  light  never  dims,  does  it  ?"  said  Brendice,  looking 
away  again,  oceanward. 

"  I  have  never  seen  it  biirning  dimly  but  once !" 

"  And  that  was  on  the  night " — 

Her  face  was  still  averted. 

"On  the  night  after  the  accident!"  he  said. 

"  When  my  father's  boat  came  back  with  the  tide,  empty !" 
— She  was  looking  at  him  now,  earnestly. 

"  And  Luke's  did  not  return  at  all !" 

Brendice  did  not  observe  how  attentively  he  was  watching 
the  expression  of  her  countenance  as  he  said  this.  Her 
thoughts,  at  the  moment,  were  widely  different  from  his. 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  181 

She  made  an  effort  to  speak  calmly,  and  he  did  not  perceive 
there  was  a  tremulousness  in  her  toae. 

"  Did  the  light  go  out  that  night?"  she  inquired. 

"  Yes,  Brendice !  I  have  denied  it  before,  because  I  have 
always  felt  friendly  towards  the  Commodore,  and  I  would 
not  say  anything  to  injure  him.  But  it  is  true. 

"  After  the  fog  had  cleared  away,  for  at  one  time,  just  past 
midnight,  I  believe  it  was,  when  the  wind  suddenly  lulled,  it 
hung  heavily  over  the  sea, — I  was  thinking  too  much,  that 
night,  to  sleep, — I  saw  the  light  growing  paler  and  paler, 
and  two  hours  before  daybreak  it  went  out.  It  was  while 
the  fog  lasted  that  the  Essex  struck  the  sand-bar.  The  pilot 
admitted  that  he  saw  both  the  lights  after  she  had  struck — 
the  Convoy  light  and  the  red  light  at  the  Port. 

"  Greyson  denies  that  the  lamps  went  out  earlier  than  an 
hour  before  sunrine  ;  but  they  had  been  relighted  then.  He 
says  that  the  Commodore's  boat  was  fretting  against  the 
rocks,  and  that  in  trying  to  haul  it  higher  on  shore,  he  not 
only  lost  his  boat,  but  injured  himself  so  much,  that  he  was 
unable  to  return  immediately  to  the  lighthouse. 

"  Very  likely  that  was  the  case,  for  the  boat  was  dashed  to 
pieces  on  one  of  the  other  islands,  though  the  accident  hap 
pened  earlier  in  the  morning. 

"  But  what  can  I  do  for  you,  Brendice  ?  You  must  re 
main  here  no  longer.  You  are  becoming  wet  and  cold." 

"Only  this!" — she  said,  in  a  half  whisper,  though  no 
human  being  but  the  now  sleeping  child  was  within  sight. — 
"  If  you  ever  see  that  light  burning  dimly  again,  come  and 
tell  me !" 

She  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  stepped  into  the 


1 82  By  the  Sea. 

miserable  dwelling,  looking  back,  for  a  moment,  to  add, 
"That  is  all!"  in  such  a  tone,  and  with  such  a  look  on  her 
countenance,  that  the  young  man  checked  the  words  which 
were  rising  to  his  lips. 

After  a  moment  of  silent  hesitation,  he  turned  away  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  beach,  pondering  on  the  strangeness  of 
the  request  Brendice  had  made. 

What  interest  could  she  possibly  have  in  Mr.  Aden,  or  the 
manner  in  which  he  discharged  the  duties  of  his  post?  Her 
boat  was  very  seldom  on  the  water  in  the  night,  and  he  did 
not  believe  there  was  any  one  now  among  the  fishermen  on 
the  coast  whose  safety  she  particularly  cared  for. 

If  her  father  were  living  it  might  be  imagined  she  was 
thinking  the  place  over  at  the  Convoy  would  be  a  very  good 
one  for  him  ;  but  lie  who  had  tried  so  hard  a  few  months  be 
fore  to  have  the  present  keeper  discharged,  in  order  to 
obtain  the  situation  himself,  must  be  a  stranger  to  her. 

Mr.  Aden  she  most  likely  had  never  seen,  unless  from  a 
distance  in  her  boat.  He  had  never  been  over  to  The  Sands> 
as  Jones  had  heard,  and  it  was  before  her  father  had  come  to 
the  neighborhood  that  he  had  made  his  final  visit  to  the  Port* 

William  had  not  been  more  than  eight  or  nine  years  of 
age  when,  it  was  said,  the  keeper  went  for  the  last  time  to 
the  mainland.  He  remembered  the  time  well  enough, 
though,  for  it  had  been  impressed  on  his  mind  the  succeed 
ing  day  by  what  he  then  considered  a  very  great  disappoint 
ment,  and  which  was  so  regarded,  secretly,  however,  by  one 
more  interested  than  himself. 

He  had  run  a  long  way  up  the  beach  to  meet  Greyson,  as 
his  boat  came  to  the  landing. 


Back  to  the  old  Home.  183 

Jerry  was  then  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house  of  "William's 
father,  and  his  aunt  Sally  had  managed  to  make  the  boy 
coax  her  to  let  him  go  out,  at  the  time  the  fisherman's  boat 
would  return  from  The  Rocks,  and  invite  him  down  to  sup 
per. 

The  next  time  Greyson  went  over  to  the  islands  Miss 
Jones  and  William  were  to  go  with  him. 

He  had  been  there  on  purpose  that  day  to  ask  the  Com 
modore  when  he  should  bring  Sally  to  the  Convoy  to  see 
how  she  liked  the  nice,  comfortable  dwelling-house,  over 
which  he  hoped  to  see  her  installed,  before  long,  as  mistress. 

But  Greyson  did  not  go  home  with  William  Jones  that 
night,  to  drink  tea  with  his  aunt. 

The  young  man  remembered,  now,  how  the  poor  fellow 
looked  when  he  inquired  how  soon  they  were  going  over 
to  The  Rocks,  and  he  had  said,  with  a  great  sob,  "  Never  !" 

And  then  he  began  to  jabber  in  such  a  way,  to  himself, 
that  the  little  boy  was  almost  afraid  of  him,  though  he  could 
not  forget  some  words  which  Greyson  had  uttered.  Among 
other  things,  he  said  that  people  might  call  him  a  fool  as 
much  as  they  pleased,  for  no  doubt  he  was  one  ;  but  he  had 
wit  enough  to  know  whom  he  had  been  priest  and  sponsor 
for  ;  and  who  it  was,  that,  if  he  had  received  any  christening 
at  all,  had  the  rite  performed  by  a  gentleman  Greyson  did 
not  like  to  mention  until  he  had  got  his  things  safe  in  the 
boat-house. 

For  a  long  time  after,  months,  at  least,  Jerry  had  never 
called  the  keeper  of  the  lighthouse  either  Mr.  Aden,  or  the 
Commodore  ;  but  had  said  simply  he,  or  had  referred  to  him 
only  by  pointing  with  his  finger  over  towards  The  Rocks. 


184  By  the  Sea. 

He  had  never  explained  to  any  one  why  he  did  not  go 
over  to  the  Convoy  to  make  his  home  there.  He  might 
have  made  some  explanation  to  Miss  Sally,  when  he  next 
visited  her,  which  was  not  until  two  or  three  weeks  after  the 
evening  when  William  had  run  up  the  beach  to  invite  him 
down  to  take  supper  ;  but  she  received  him  in  such  a  man 
ner  that  he  had  made  a  hasty  exit  from  the  house,  and 
though  fifteen  years  had  since  passed,  had  never  re-entered 
it  again. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

ALL   SAINTS'   DAY. 

JT  was  on  a  Holy  Sabbath  morning — the  Feast  of 
All  Saints — that  Brendice  Du  Bois,  bearing  in  her 
arms  the  new  burden  she  had  voluntarily  taken 
up,  returned  to  her  old  home,  which  she  had  entered  but  a  few 
times,  and  then  solely  for  the  purpose  of  looking  after  her 
fish,  since  the  evening,  months  ago,  on  which  she  had  walked 
away  from  it  with  Mrs.  Maitland. 

A  faint,  sickening  sensation  passed  over  her  as  she  closed 
the  door  against  her  companion,  who  would  so  gladly  have 
taken  her  to  his  own  comfortable  home,  either  as  his  wife, 
or  as  a  companion  for  his  aunt. 

She  felt  no  regret  that  she  had  silenced  him  so  suddenly, 
though,  sinking  down  upon  a  seat  by  the  window,  she  sat 
following  with  her  eyes  his  retreating  form,  till  it  passed, 
through  the  thick  mist,  beyond  her  sight.  Neither  did  she 
think,  just  then,  how  lonely  and  desolate  her  situation  was, 
especially  at  this  season  of  the  year,  when  the  long,  cold 

winter  was  just  coming  on  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  dreariness 

(185) 


1 86  By  the  Sea. 

and  discomfort  of  her  abode,  of  her  poverty,  and  the  wants 
of  herself  and  the  child. 

She  thought  only  of  what  William  Jones  had  said  of  the 
man  at  the  Convoy, — how  confidently  he  had  spoken  of  the 
lighthouse  keeper  as  a  gentleman  he  had  once  well  known, 
and  concerning  whose  identity  with  Mr.  Aden,  it  might  be 
inferred,  there  had  never  been  with  any  one  the  least 
question. 

The  young  man  had  not  expressed  to  her  the  thoughts 
which  were  now  passing  through  his  mind  ;  and,  in  fact,  the 
words  he  had  heard  Greyson  utter  long  ago  had  not  occurred 
to  him  until  after  he  parted  with  the  girl. 

Brendice  was  thinking  of  what  he  had  said,  and  more 
intently  now  than  when  she  was  listening  to  him,  debating 
with  herself,  as  she  was  then,  whether  she  should  accept  the 
assistance  of  another  in  the  accomplishment  of  the  purpose 
she  had  so  much  at  heart. 

Now  she  was  summing  up  what  she  had  used  as  proof  that 
the  lighthouse  keeper  was  the  Mr.  Maitlard  who,  her  father 
had  told  her,  was  the  murderer  of  her  mother. 

The  longer  she  reflected,  the  less  weighty  these  proofs 
appeared  to  her,  and  a  faint,  sickening  feeling  came  over 
her,  as  she  thought,  perhaps,  she  had  as  yet  found  no  clue 
which  would  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  guilty  man. 

The  child  moved  uneasily  in  her  arms,  and,  without  open 
ing  the  sweet  brown  eyes,  tried  to  speak  the  name  :  "  Luke — 
Luke!" — and  to  say  that  he  was  cold  and  hungry  ;  and  when 
he  had  waked,  and  stared  about  the  strange,  uncomfortable- 
looking  apartment,  the  little  lips  began  to  quiver  with  fear, 
and  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 


All  Saints   Day.  187 

An  hour  after,  however,  the  child  was  playing,  contentedly, 
on  the  sanded  floor. 

Brendice  had  torn  away  a  loosened  plank  from  the  old  boat, 
split  it  into  pieces,  and  made  a  comfortable  fire,  and  pre 
pared  for  herself  and  the  child  some  coarse  but  palatable 
food  ;  and  then  had  gone  out  into  the  rain,  which  was  falling 
fast  now,  while  the  weather  had  become  so  cold  that  the 
ground  was  beginning  to  be  iced  over,  and  gathered 
nandfuls  of  pebbles  and  sea-shells  as  playthings  for  L' Enfant. 

That  was  the  name  she  had  given  the  boy,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  Miss  Emma  Brown,  until  Sally  Jones  had 
said,  in  her  determined  way,  that  Brendice  certainly  had  the 
right  to  call  him  by  whatever  name  she  pleased,  if  she  waa 
going  to  take  charge  of  him  ;  and  that  Lang  was  as  good  a 
name  as  any  other. 

"When  the  child  had  been  cared  for,  entirely  to  the  little 
creature's  satisfaction,  for  the  old  room  was  ringing  with  his 
peals  of  merry  laughter,  Brendice  began  to  busy  herself 
about  the  apartment.  She  felt  that  she  could  no  longer, 
that  day,  continue  the  train  of  thought  she  had  been  following, 
when  the  waking  of  the  child  disturbed  her. 

Then  she  remembered  that  this  was  the  Sabbath.  She  had 
scarcely  thought  of  it  before.  And  one  of  the  Church's 
holy-days. 

Mrs.  Maitland  had  referred  to  it  the  past  Sunday,  as  she 
sat,  propped  up  in  her  bed,  little  thinking  that  it  was.  her 
last  earthly  Sabbath. 

She  had  told  Brendice,  with  her  peaceful  smile,  that  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  be  sick  that  day,  and  be  waited 
upon,  and  to  be  read  to  ;  and  that  a  portion  of  the  reading 


1 88  By  the  Sea. 

must  be  the  Visitation  of  the  Sick  ;  for  as  she  had  never  been 
really  ill  in  her  life,  that  service  had  never  been  read  to  her. 

"  The  next  Lord's  day,"  she  said,  folding  her  thin,  white 
hands  above  her  head,  and  looking  away  through  the  open 
window,  up  to  the  vapory  eastern  sky — "  which  is  All  Saints' 
Day,  we  will  read  together  about  the  Blessed,  who  are  sealed 
in  their  foreheads — the  servants  of  our  God — that  great 
multitude  whom  no  man  can  number,  but  whom  our  Saviour 
will  know,  each  one  by  name. 

"  Breudice,  I  have  sometimes  thought,when  we  are  born 
again — born  to  the  Life  Eternal,  that  we  shall  be  called  by 
a  new  name  which  the  mouth  of  the  Lord  shall  name.  Those 
who  have  been  termed  Forsaken,  and  their  inheritance 
Desolate,  shall  be  called  Hephzi-bah,  and  their  portion 
Beulah  ; — no  more  Jacob,  the  Supplanter,  but,  for  his  earnest 
wrestling  to  obtain  the  blessing, — Israel,  a  prince,  prevailing 
with  God! 

"  That  innumerable  multitude,  clothed  in  white  robes, 
with  palms  in  their  hands,  standing  about  the  Throne — the 
Throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb,  and  singing,  for  evermore, 
the  song  of  the  Redeemed.  Those  who  will  see  God,  are 
the  pure  in  heart,  and  it  is  the  peacemakers  who  will  bo 
called  His  children. 

"  Brendice,  we  will  pray  together  on  that  holy-day — the 
next  Sabbath  ;  will  we  not  ?  you  will  not  go  out  any  more, 
to  walk  alone  upon  the  beach,  and  look  so  grievedly  and 
hopelessly  into  the  sea,  as  you  have  always  yet  done,  when  I 
sat  down  to  read  the  Service  of  the  Church !"  she  added, 
pleadingly,  as  she  removed  one  trembling  hand  from  her 
brow,  and  laid  it  on  the  girls  arm.  "  We  will  together  utter 


All  Saints    Day.  189 

this  prayer  which  the  Church's  thousands  will  breathe  on 
the  coming  Sabbath  : 

" '  Grant  us  grace  to  follow  Thy  blessed  Saints  in  all 
virtuous  and  godly  living,  that  we  may  come  to  those 
unspeakable  joys  which  Thou  hast  prepared  for  those  who 
unfeignedly  love  Thee.' 

"  You  will  promise  me  this,  dear  Brendice  ! 

"  It  has  grieved  me,  very  much,  these  months  past,  to 
think  there  was  no  voice  to  mingle  with  mine,  when  I  read 
the  beautiful  and  solemn  Service  of  the  Church  ;  but  hence 
forth,  while  I  live,  there  will  be  two  of  us  to  engage  in  it, 
will  there  not  ?  And  I  have  been  praying,  Brendice,  that 
when  I  am  gone,  the  Lord  will  send  some  one  to  you,  whom 
you  will  love,  as  I  am  loving  you." 

She  had  been  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  had  repeated 
the  request : 

"Henceforth,  while  I  live,  you  will  read  the  service  with 
me." 

It  was  not  much  to  promise,  for  the  girl  was  thinking  that 
the  last  earthly  Sabbath  for  that  gentle  being,  if  not  already 
arrived,  must  come  very  soon,  and  she  replied  by  returning 
the  soft  pressure  upon  her  fingers;  and  then  she  had  taken  a 
low  stool  and  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and  read  in  a  solemn, 
sweetly-modulated  voice,  the  Service  for  the  Sick,  until  she 
came  to  the  beautiful  words  of  blessing.  The  blessing  which 
the  Hebrew  leader,  at  the  command  of  God,  instructed  the 
high-priest  and  bis  sons  to  pronounce  over  the  congregation 
of  Israel  as  they  journeyed  to  the  proinisid  land.  The 
beautiful  words  with  which  our  holy  and  tender  Mother 
blesses  her  numerous  offspring,  as,  weary  and  way-worn, 


190  By  the  Sea. 

but  with  the  desert  now  passed,  they  climb  up  the  height, 
and  look  away — away  from  Pisgah,  up,  over  the  dark  river 
that  rolls  between,  away  to  the  better  and  lasting  Inheri 
tance  :  for  Christ,  himself,  going  before,  has  prepared  the 
place  for  them  ! 

And  then  Mrs.  Maitland,  raising  herself  higher  in  the  bed, 
had  extended  her  hand  and  rested  it  on  Brendice's  head, 
and  in  a  low,  and  tremulous,  but  trusting  voice,  repeated  the 
words  : 

"The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee.  The  Lord  make 
His  face  to  shine  upon  thee,  and  be  gracious  unto  thee. 
The  Lord  lift  up  His  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give  thee 
peace." 

The  "Amen  "  had  risen  to  Brendice's  lips;  but  she  checked 
its  utterance. 

"  The  peace  of  God !"  No  doubt  it  was  a  most  blessed 
thing — something  to  be  greatly  desired. 

But  through  the  open  window — what  object,  or  what  dis 
tance  of  time  or  space  could  shut  out  the  sound  ? — she  heard 
a  voice  coming  up  from  the  never-silent  sea ;  her  father's 
voice  : 

"Kevanche!" 

What  had  she  to  do  with  peace?  And  she  shook  off  the 
feeling  which  was  stealing  over  her. 

Mrs.  Maitland  had  watched  the  changes  of  her  counte- 
..tince.  She  took  the  Prayer-book  after  she  ceased  speak 
ing,  and  held  it  for  some  moments  in  her  clasp,  with  her 
eyes  closed,  but  her  lips  moving  inaudibly,  and  then  gave 
it  back  to  the  girl. 

And  this  Sunday  morning,  as  Brendice  was  picking  up  her 


All  Saints    Day.  191 

clothing  to  return  to  lier  old  home,  she  had  taken  the  book, 
the  only  thing  that  she  did  take  from  the  house,  and  put  it 
in  her  bundle. 

She  had  scarcely  realized  what  she  was  doing  at  the  mo 
ment  ;  but  now,  as  the  remembrance  of  the  past  Sunday 
came  to  her,  and  she,  in  her  attempts  better  to  dispose  the 
poor  furniture  of  the  miserable  apartment,  had  stood  before 
the  little  dingy  window  which  opened  towards  the  west,  and 
looked  away  through  the  cold,  drizzling  rain,  up  to  the 
clump  of  evergreens  on  the  distant  hill-side,  she  thought  of 
the  promise  to  Mrs.  Maitland  : 

"  On  the"  Feast  of  All  Saints,  we  will  utter  together  the 
prayer  which  the  Church  will  offer." 

She  took  the  book  and  an  old  copy  of  the  French  Bible — 
she  knew  in  what  part  of  the  sea-chest  to  look  for  it,  for  she 
had  often  seen  it  there,  and  sometimes,  though  not  fre 
quently,  for  her  father  had  not  taught  her  so  to  do,  she  had 
read  a  few  chapters  in  it, — and  sat  down,  turning  to  the  Ser 
vice  for  the  Holy  Day. 

Where  was  she  now,  who,  only  one  short  week  since,  had 
spoken,  so  confidently,  of  reading  the  Service  with  her  ? 

The  question  passed  through  the  girl's  mind,  as  her  eyes 
rested  on  the  first  Lesson  for  the  evening. 

Perhaps  far  away  in  infinite  space,  beyond  the  sight  or 
the  knowledge  of  earthly  things  ;  gone — "Passed  away  as  a 
shadow,  and  a  post  that  hasteth  by  ;  as  a  ship  that  passeth 
over  the  waters;  a  bird  that  hath  flown  through  the  air,  or  an 
arrow  shot  at  a  mark ;"  but,  "  Numbered  among  the  children 
of  God,"  and  "  the  care  of  them  is  with  the  Most  High !" 

And  Brendice   thought   of  herself,  and  read   again  and 


1 92  By  the  Sea. 

again  the  words  which  seemed  so  applicable  to  her  own 
case  : 

"  We  have  gone  through  deserts  where  there  lay  no  way; 
but  as  for  ^the  way  of  the  Lord,  we  have  not  known  it." 

There  was  no  more  prayer  for  Mrs.  Maitland  now,  no 
mote  striving  to  follow  the  blessed  Saints,  in  whose  footsteps, 
Brendice  thought,  as  she  was  reading  the  beatitudes,  the 
departed  one  had  so  closely  walked  ;  one,  herself,  among 
them,  now,  with  the  words  of  praise,  henceforth,  forever 
upon  her  lips. 

And  the  prayer  for  that  day  was  not  for  Brendice  to  utter, 
for  as  she  turned  to  the  Gospel  for  the  Sabbath,  she  read : 

"  Lord,  how  oft  shall  my  brother  sin  against  me,  and  I  for 
give  him  ?  Till  seven  times  ? 

"And  Jesus  saith  unto  him,  Until  seventy  times  seven." 

As  often  as  he  shall  sin  against  thee  1 

And  Brendice  had  not  forgiven  once!  No,  and  never 
would  forgive  1 

The  softer  expression  which  overspread  her  features  as  she 
had  looked  up  the  hill-side,  and  thought  of  her  so  far  away, 
now  among  the  Blessed,  forever  removed  from  all  sorrow  and 
pain,  had  faded  very  quickly. 

Beyond  the  opposite  window,  though  now  shut  out  from 
sight  by  the  heavy  rain,  lay  the  islands. 

The  hard,  cold  look,  so  habitual  to  it,  though  nature  never 
meant  it  to  be  so,  came  back  to  her  face. 

When  her  work  was  done — when  measure  should  have 
been  given  for  measure — she  might  again,  perhaps,  look  over 
the  pages  of  the  Holy  Book,  and  see  if  there  was  anything 
written  there  for  those  who,  instead  of  leaving  their  wrongs 


AIL  Saints    Day.  193 

in  the  hands  of  Him  who  has  said,  "  Vengeance  is  mine  ;  I 
will  repay,"  have  taken  the  adjustment  of  their  affairs  entirely 
upon  themselves. 

The  little  boy  upon  the  floor,  though  well  pleased  with 
his  new,  wonderful  toys,  was  not  so  absorbed  by  his  play  that 
he  did  not  often  turn  the  sweet  eyes  timidly  around  the 
strange  room,  and  then  up  to  the  face  he  was  beginning  to 
love,  to  be  assured,  by  its  expression,  that  everything  was 
just  as  it  should  be. 

He  had  been  startled  by  the  heavy  fall  of  the  Bible  lid, 
and  the  snap  of  its  clasp,  and  looked  up  to  see  the  great 
change  which  had  passed  over  her  face,  great  even  to  him, 
the  child  of  two  and  a  half  years,  and  he  dropped  his  shells 
and  got  upon  his  feet,  and  hesitatingly  drew  near  her,  the 
tears  trembling  in  his  eyes,  and.  the  quivering  lip  restrain 
ing  the  sobs,  only  till  he  could  put  one  little,  soft,  warm  hand 
upon  her  fingers,  and  hide  his  face  in  her  lap. 

The  girl  glanced  at  the  little  creature,  and  thought  of 
what  Mrs.  Maitland  had  said,  the  past  Sunday,  that,  when 
she  was  gone,  the  Lord  would  send  some  one  to  Brendice 
whom  she  could  love. 

She  folded  her  arms  around  the  child,  and  drew  him 
closely  to  her,  wondering  if  heaven  ever  did,  really,  concern 
itself  with  the  affairs  of  men  ;  and  hoping  that  the  sweet 
child,  now  so  innocent  and  loving,  and  possessing,  as  it 
seemed  to,  so  happy  a  nature,  might  be  spared  such  suffer 
ing  as  her  childhood  had  known,  and  such  bitter,  maddening 
grief  as  was  the  portion  of  her  youth ;  hoping,  too  : — her  eyes 
had  rested  so  long  upon  the  Collect  which  she  had  promised 
to  read,  on  this  Holy- day,  but  which  she  could  not  bring 

9 


194 

herself  to  utter,  that  the  form  of  words  was  passing  through 
her  mind: — hoping  with  an  earnestness  that  was  more 
than  half  a  prayer,  that,  when  this  brief  life  was  over,  he 
might  "  Come  to  those  unspeakable  joys  which  Thou  hast 
prepared  for  those  who  unfeignedly  love  Thee  !" 

The  desire  for  another's  good  was  softening  her  heart; 
and  the  child  looked  up  as  the  tears  fell  on  his  brow,  and 
he  nestled  closer  to  her,  twining  his  arms  about  her  neck, 
and  cooing  gently  and  pitifully  in  the  little  endeavor  to 
soothe  her,  till  tho  eyelids  began  to  droop,  and  the  head  sank 
down  upon  her  shoulder. 

Then  Brendice  took  up  the  little  sound,  in  a  voice  sweet 
as  that  of  the  child,  chanting  over  and  over  the  closing  lines 
of  the  hymn  Mrs.  Maitland  had  selected  for  the  day.  The 
leaf  had  been  turned  down,  by  her  white,  trembling  fingers, 
at  the  words  : 

"  And  forever  from  their  eyes, 
God  shall  wipe  away  the  tears." 

The  child  was  still  lying  in  her  arms  when  the  •  cold,  dis 
mal  day  drew  to  its  close. 

It  was  dark  early  in  that  cheerless  room  ;  for  the  two  win 
dows  in  the  apartment  contained  each  but  a  dozen  small 
panes  of  glass,  and  they  were  thickly  curtained  with  cob 
webs  and  dust. 

Here  and  there,  as  she  looked  out  into  the  waning  night,  a 
light  was  springing  up,  and  sending  its  cheerful  rays  through 
the  darkness. 

The  first  which  appeared,  had  blazed  out  widely  over  the 
sea  ;  then  the  red  light  came  down  from  the  north,  and  a 
moment  later,  the  lamps  at  the  Ocean  House  were  lighted. 


All  Saints    Day.  195 

The  boarders,  with  a  single  exception,  had  gone  from  the 
hotel,  two  months  since ;  but  the  proprietor  made  the 
dwelling  his  permanent  home  ;  it  would  not  be  closed  during 
the  winter. 

Then  lights  in  the  other  dwellings  came  out. 

In  the  distance,  Brendice  knew  scarcely  one  of  those  resi 
dences  from  the  other,  she  was  still  such  a  stranger  in  the 
place,  though,  from  her  earliest  remembrance,  her  home  had 
been  there. 

She  sat,  for  so  long  a  time,  idly  watching  them,  that  her 
room  was  almost  dark  when  she  rose  to  place  the  child  upon 
the  bed  which  had  been  occupied  by  her  father,  and  on 
which  articles  of  his  clothing  were  still  lying,  as  he  had 
thrown  them  down,  just  before  she  had  seen  him  for  the  last 
time,  walking  down  the  beach,  to  which  his  boat  had  re 
turned  empty. 

A  shudder  ran  through  her  frame,  and  her  fingers  trembled 
as  they  touched  the  clothing  which  she  wished  to  remove  in 
order  to  make  a  place  for  the  child  to  lie  comfortably  in,  and 
something  rustled  down  upon  the  floor.  It  was  a  folded 
paper. 

She  did  not  notice  it  particularly.  There  was  not  light 
enough  now  in  the  apartment  to  enable  her  to  see  whether 
it  bore  any  superscription  or  not,  even  if  she  had  endeavored 
to  do  so. 

Sh3  wondered  what  it  was  ;  but  she  was  so  strangely  ner 
vous,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  though  it  was  simply  long-contin 
ued  wakefulness,  for  she  had  slept  very  little  during  the  last 
three  nights,  which  was  exerting  its  influence  over  her,  that 
she  had  picked  up  the  paper,  and,  scarcely  glancing  at  it, 


196  By  the  Sea. 

dropped  it  into  the  pocket  of  the  old  coat,  which  with 
the  other  garments,  she  very  quickly  hung  up  in  their  form 
erly  accustomed  place,  the  darkest  corner  in  the  room,  and 
then  sank  down  on  the  couch,  beside  the  child. 

The  frozen  rain  was  falling  heavily  upon  the  roof  of  the 
rude  cabin,  and  beating  against  the  window  panes,  and 
the  cold  waves  were  dashing  monotonously  and  gloomily 
over  the  rocks. 

Brendice  drew  the  sleeping  child  into  her  tender  embrace, 
and  thought  how  much  another  woman  might  love  him  ;  but 
the  last  object  on  which  her  eyes  rested,  before  they  closed 
in  slumber,  was  the  Convoy  light;  and  her  lips  shaped  them 
selves,  at  the  close  of  that  holy-day,  to  the  words  : 

'"Measure  for  measure;  pressed  down  and  running 
over.' " 


CHAPTER    XY. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

HE  early,  cold  winter  was  slowly  passing  on.  It 
was  a  particularly  severe  one,  even  for  that  bleak 
coast.  For  many  days  in  succession,  would  the 
fine  dry  snow  slowly  sift  down,  and  then  a  cold,  swift  wind 
would  lift  the  white  covering  from  the  earth,  tossing  it  here 
and  there  at  its  will,  filling  up  the  highways,  and  stamping 
down  the  huge  piles  with  its  viewless  feet,  so  firmly,  that  the 
roads  would  be,  for  a  long  time,  well  nigh  impassable,  and 
heaping  the  thick  fleeces  one  above  an  other,  till  the  fences 
and  stone  walls,  and  many  a  low  habitation,  for  man  as  well 
as  for  beast,  well  nigh  disappeared. 

The  little  fish -houses,  all  of  them  now,  save  one,  quite  un 
used  during  the  winter,  were  more  than  once  thus  almost 
lost  to  view.  But  from  out  the  extremity  of  the  long  snow 
ridge,  a  thin,  blue  smoke  would  curl  up  early  each  morning, 
through  the  frosty  air  ;  and  no  one  ever  went  down  to  the 
dwelling  without  finding  a  clearing  before  its  entrance, 
sufficiently  wide  for  the  door,  which  had  been  hung  on  the 

outside  of  the  building,  to  swing  in,  and  the  snow  swept 

(197) 


198  By  the  Sea. 

away  from  the  windows,  so  that  the  sunlight  could  find  its 
way  into  the  apartment,  which  was  much  more  orderly  and 
clean  now  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

Brendice  Du  Bois  was  very  anxious  that  the  few  people 
who  interested  themselves  in  her  welfare  and  that  of  the 
little  boy,  should  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  she  needed 
assistance. 

She  had  voluntarily  taken  upon  herself  the  charge  of  the 
child,  and  she  felt,  at  most  times,  quite  capable  of  accom 
plishing  her  task.  It  might  not  be  long  that  he  would  re 
main  with  her.  Some  one  who  had  a  right  to  do  so,  might 
come  and  claim  him,  or  she  might  be  obliged  to  relinquish 
her  care  of  him;  but  while  she  kept  him,  it  should  be  with 
out  the  aid  of  others.  And,  besides,  she  could  not  forget 
that  some  of  the  neighbors,  at  one  time,  had  contemplated 
sending  her  to  the  alms-house. 

No  one  had  offended  her  with  what  might  be  considered 
a  real  offer  of  assistance. 

Mrs.  Adams,  of  the  Ocean  House,  had  brought  her  down 
some  plain  sewing;  Brendice  had  learned  from  Mrs.  Mait- 
land  to  use  the  needle  very  cleverly. 

Miss  Sally  Jones  had  come  over  one  day  during  the  first 
week  after  Brendice's  return  to  her  home,  and  brought  her 
spinning-wheel,  a.nd  a  bundle  of  "rolls,"  and  taught  the  girl 
to  spin.  She  wanted  some  coarse  yarn  for  a  home-made 
carpet. 

And  during  the  winter,  when  the  weather  would  permit, 
she  went  down  daily  on  the  beach  and  dug  a  basket  of  clams. 
They  were  for  the  old  gentleman  at  the  Ocean  House,  Mr. 
Hall.  He  was  somewhat  an  invalid  this  winter,  and  he  had 


Christmas  Eve.  199 

sent  down  to  inquire  if  she  could  furnish  him  with  fresh 
shell-fish  every  day  ;  and  as  Brendice  was  very  glad  to  do  so, 
when  it  was  possible  to  gather  them,  a  feeble  little  lad,  the 
son  of  a  poor  woman,  widowed  by  the  shipwreck  which  had 
happened  at  the  Bar  some  months  before,  whom  the  old 
gentleman  found  frequent  occasion  to  employ,  was  sent 
down  to  the  girl,  every  pleasant  day,  with  a  small  basket  and 
a  bright  silver  "  quarter  "  for  the  fish. 

The  boy  was  to  remain  with  "  Lang  " — Miss  Jones'  abbre 
viation  was  accepted — while  the  clams  were  dug;  and  the 
basket  always  brought  something  which  added  very  much  to 
Brendice's  necessarily  plain  fare,  and  which  helped  to  while 
away  many  an  hour,  which,  otherwise,  would  have  been  very 
long  and  lonely. 

A  dozen  nice  apples  or  pears,  a  handful  of  figs,  a  slice  of 
dripping  honey-comb,  a  cluster  of  raisins,  or  a  few  nuts, 
would  be  sure  to  come  in  the  basket,  well  wrapped  up  in 
some  good,  instructive  newspaper. 

The  old  boat,  and  the  drift-wood  she  occasionally  found 
along  the  shore,  furnished  her  tolerably  well  with  fuel- 
She  had  expected  that  she  would  be  obliged  to  sell  the  new 
boat,  and  some  other  articles,  perhaps,  which  had  belonged 
to  her  father,  to  enable  her  to  live  through  the  winter;  and 
before  the  spring-fishing  came  on,  the  purpose  she  had  so 
much  at  heart,  and  which  seemed  daily  to  be  strengthening, 
she  hoped  to  have  accomplished. 

What  was  to  come  after,  she  did  not  suffer  herself  to  think. 
Most  likely  she  would  never  use  the  boat  again. 

The  avails  of  her  labor,  however,  furnished  her  with  food, 
without  the  sale  of  anything  which  had  been  her  father's; 


2OO  By  the  Sea. 

,  * 

and  she  had  been  able,  besides,  to  purchase  such  a  warm, 
soft  dress  for  her  little  charge,  that  he  was  very  comfort 
able. 

She  made  it  her  especial  care  that  he  should  be  so,  and 
happy,  too;  at  first  from  principle,  and  afterwards  from 
affection.  The  sweet-tempered,  engaging  little  creature 
found  his  way  to  her  inmost  heart ;  and  his  smile,  which 
seemed  to  light  up  the  apartment  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  after 
the  storm  had  passed,  and  the  cunning  little  baby  words  he 
would  try  so  hard  to  utter,  awoke  emotions  which  she  had 
supposed  herself  incapable  ever  of  experiencing. 

She  did  not  know  how  much  she  loved  the  child  until  one 
night — it  was  Christmas  Eve  —  the  thought  suddenly  flashed 
across  her  mind  that  he  might,  perhaps,  be  taken  immediately 
from  her. 

The  old  gentleman  at  the  Ocean  House  gave  an  entertain 
ment  to  the  children  of  the  neighborhood;  and  Mrs.  Adams 
herself  came  down  to  invite  Brendice  to  go  up  to  the  hotel 
and  take  little  Lang ;  bringing  a  warm  shawl  to  wrap  him  up 
in,  and  promising  that  her  son  should  come  and  help  her 
carry  the  child. 

Brendice  had  not  been  away  from  her  home  since  her 
return  to  it,  now  nigh  two  months  ago,  except  when  she 
went  down  on  the  beach  for  her  basket  of  clams,  or  had 
taken  a  swift  walk  while  the  child  was  sleeping,  over  to  the 
store,  for  the  purchase  of  some  article  for  her  housekeeping. 

Miss  Jones  had  been  very  anxious  that  she  should  spend 
Thanksgiving-day  with  her  and  William  ;  and  Mrs.  Brown 
had  compelled  Emma,  who  was  very  unwilling  to  do  so,  to 
invite  her  to  a  quil ting-party.  Brendice  had  declined  both 


Christmas  Eve.  201 

invitations,  and  she  was  very  loth  to  accept  that  from  Mrs. 
Adams. 

The  little  boy  was  not  old  enough  to  appreciate  the 
pleasant  things  prepared  for  the  children,  she  said.  The 
night  was  cold,  and  he  had  better  be  at  home  and  asleep. 

And  Mrs.  Adams  assented,  but  she  added  that  the  old 
gentleman  wanted  to  see  all  the  children  in  the  neighbor 
hood  together.  He  had  been  at  considerable  expense  to 
prepare  the  festival  for  them,  and  he  was  so  very  kind  and 
good  that  she  thought  every  one  ought  to  be  willing  to  make 
some  little  sacrifice  for  him.  He  had  not  a  relative  living 
within  hundreds  of  miles,  and  no  particular  friend,  now  that 
Mr.  Aden,  over  at  The  Rocks,  to  whom  Mr.  Hall  had  once 
been  greatly  attached,  persistently  refused  to  visit  him.  He 
had,  besides,  seen  much  trouble,  and  sometimes  it  weighed 
very  heavily  on  his  mind,  making  him,  in  his  rather  feeble 
state  of  health,  almost  sick,  until  he  could,  by  the  attempt  to 
make  some  one  else  happy,  regain  his  accustomed  cheer 
fulness. 

At  the  best,  however,  his  was  a  most  solitary  life,  and  she 
felt  very  sorry  for  him.  He  had  been  quite  ill  for  a  week  or 
two  past,  but  had  brightened  up,  as  the  thought  occurred  to 
him  of  bringing  the  children  together  around  the  Christ^ 
mas-tree. 

A  Christmas  festival  had  never  been  held  at  H : 

At  St.  Mary's,  up  at  the  Port,  the  holy  season  was  ob 
served  with  all  its  beautiful  and  impressive  ceremonies. 

The  old  gentleman  had  formerly  worshipped  at  St.  Mary's, 

and  he  had  been  intending  to  go  up  to  N ,  and  spend 

the  holidays  there,  and  renew  the  acquaintances  he  had  formed 

9* 


202  By  the  Sea. 

there  years  ago.  But  his  heart  had  failed  him,  as  the  time 
drew  near,  and  so  he  would  keep  the  feast  here,  and  gather 
the  little  strangers  about  him. 

"  None  of  the  children  here,  besides  my  own,"  Mrs.  Adams 
said,  "know  anything  about  the  Church  ;  and  this  little  festi 
val  will,  I  am  convinced,  for  Mr.  Hall  has  made  it  a  subject 
of  prayer,  produce  a  very  pleasing  and  lasting  impression  on 
their  young  minds.  You  will  certainly  bring  the  child." 

And  Brendice  went,  though  very  unwillingly  ;  she  could 
not  well  refuse,  for  she  felt  under  great  obligations  to  the 
stranger,  and  to  Mrs.  Adams,  too,  for  the  employment  they 
had  given  her,  and  for  the  many  very  acceptable  presents  of 
newspapers  and  fruits  the  old  gentleman  had  sent  her. 

The  festival  was  a  very  pleasant  affair. 

The  good-sized  hall  at  the  Ocean  House  was  handsomely 
trimmed  with  evergreens,  and  brilliantly  lighted.  The 
walls  were  hung  Avith  pictures,  inexpensive,  the  most  of 
them,  but  very  appropriate  for  the  occasion;  and  the  large 
Christmas-tree  was  as  much  admired  by  the  old,  as  by  the 
young,  for  all  the  people  in  the  neighborhood  must  be  gather 
ed  about  it,  Brendice  thought,  as  she  entered  the  hall,  rather 
late,  herself,  as  she  wished  to  make  her  stay  there  as  brief  as 
possible. 

The  child  had  fallen  asleep  in  her  arms,  as  she  was  carry 
ing  him  up  to  the  house,  and  had  not  waked  when  his 
blanket  was  removed,  and  Mrs.  Adams  had  placed  the  little 
fellow  beside  her  own  babe  in  the  crib,  to  be  brought  to  St. 
Nicholas,  she  whispered  to  him  softly,  just  as  soon  as  he 
should  open  his  eyes. 

Mrs.  Maitland  had  thought,  and  with  good  reason,  that 


CJiristmas  Eve.  203 

the  mother  of  Brendice  Du  Bois  was,  by  far,  the  most  beau 
tiful  woman  she  had  ever  seen  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Adams  conducted 
her,  who  to  some  eyes  might  have  seemed  the  almost  perfect 
counterpart  of  that  unfortunate  lady,  into  the  lighted  hall,  a 
similar  thought  occurred  to  her. 

Brendice  had  strangely  altered,  in  her  whole  appearance, 
within  the  past  few  months.  Mrs.  Adams  did  not  know 
which  most  to  admire,  the  symmetry  and  delicacy  of  feature, 
the  perfect  good  taste  displayed  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
simple  toilet,  or  her  quiet  dignity  and  repose  of  manner 
when  she  suddenly  found  herself  the  object  to  which  many 
wondering  eyes  turned  now  with  manifest  pleasure  and  re 
spect. 

The  host  was  an  old  man  now;  but,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
sad  intelligence  which  had  reached  him  some  months  before, 
and  which  had  sensibly  affected  both  his  health  and  spirits, 
not  aged  for  his  eighty  years.  Even  now,  he  seemed  in 
better  condition  than  when  mention  was  made  of  him, 
earlier  in  this  narrative,  though  more  than  fifteen  years  had 
passed  over  his  head  since  the  period  then  referred  to. 

He  had  a  fine,  pleasaut  countenance,  a  somewhat  sad,  but 
kind  smile  ;  and  the  eye,  yet  undimmed,  showed  that  the 
intellect,  which  had  never  been  very  brilliant,  was  not  yet 
impaired  by  age. 

He  received  Brendice  very  kindly,  holding  her  hand  for  a 
long  time  in  his  trembling  fingers,  and  looking  up  from  the 
soft  cushions  on  which  he  half  reclined — for  he  seemed 
rather  more  feeble  than  usual  that  evening — into  her  face,  al 
most  silently,  but  with  an  expression  of  pleased  surprise  on  his 
features,  and  following  her  with  his  eyes  as  Mrs.  Adams  led 


2O4  By  the  Sea. 

her  away,  so  that  he  could  continue  the  remarks  which  her 
entrance  had  interrupted,  to  those  gathered  around  the 
beautiful  Christmas-tree.  Half  an  hour  later,  he  called  her 
again  to  his  side,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  sing  for  him. 

Those  were  pleasant  little  songs  which  the  children  had 
been  singing,  he  said;  but  he  would  like  to  hear  a  Christmas 
carol.  Jerry  G-reyson  had  just  been  telling  him  that  Miss 
Brendice  had  a  very  fine  voice.  He  had  heard  her  sing 
many  times,  and  very  nicely. 

If  she  knew  some  little  simple  rhyme  for  Christmas  Eve, 
would  she  make  an  old  man,  who  heard  none  but  strange 
voices  now,  happy  by  singing  it  ? 

Brendice  flushed  slightly,  but  she  could  not  utter  a  refusal, 
for  she  saw  that  it  would  give  the  old  gentleman  pleasure  to 
hear  her  sing,  and  what  mattered  it  whether  that  group  of 
girls  gathered  around  Miss  Emma  Brown,  several  of  whom 
had  been  the  tormentors  of  her  childhood,  made  themselves 
merry  at  her  expense,  or  not  ? 

The  host  saw  that  she  needed  no  more  urging,  and  he  turned 
to  the  children  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  them,  that  Bren 
dice  might  have  time  to  collect  her  thoughts;  but  she  was 
only  listening  to  what  he  said. 

He  had  wished  to  tell  them  something  more,  he  re 
marked,  about  Christmas  ;  but  he  was  becoming  rather 
tired,  and  perhaps  they  were  tired  too,  though  he  could 
detect  no  sign  of  weariness  in  the  smiling  little  faces.  He 
had  wanted  to  say  to  them  that  it  was  not  because  Christ 
was  born,  that  those  who  love  him  celebrate  his  birthday, 
but  because  he  was  born  to  die, — to  die,  that  man  might 
hereafter,  have  a  life  which  shall  never  end. 


Christmas  Eve.  2o5 

This  tree,  lie  said,  ever  green,  was  typical  of  the  tree  on 
which  he  suffered;  never  destructible,  never  to  lose  its  beauty 
and  verdure. 

Once,  long  ago,  there  was  a  beautiful  tree  in  the  midst  of 
a  beautiful  garden.  The  fruit  was  very  fair  to  look  upon, 
and  very  pleasant  tot  the  taste.  But  it  was  poisonous  fruit- 
And  he  who  had  planted  that  fair  garden  had  said  to  the 
man  and  the  woman  who  walked  therein  : 

"  Ye  shall  not  eat  of  it,  neither  shall  ye  touch  it,  lest  ye 
die  !" 

But  they  listened  to  the  voice  of  the  serpent,  and  ate 
and  died  !  And  their  sons  and  daughters,  for  many  and 
many  a  generation,  which  passed  like  the  hours  of  a  gloomy 
night,  whose  silence  was  only  broken,  now  and  then,  by  the 
prophetic  voice,  telling  how  the  time  was  wearing  away, 
died  too! 

Another  Tree  uprose  at  length  ;  not  fair,  at  first,  to  the 
sight,  as  that  had  been,  nor  as  sweet  to  the  taste  as  was  the 
poisonous  fruit.  The  eyes  of  man  saw  not  well  now,  and 
their  taste  had  become  corrupted. 

But  as  one  looked  on  that  Tree,  which  grew  on  Mount 
Calvary — the  Tree  of  the  Cross — it  grew  wondrously  beau 
tiful,  so  beautiful  that  all  the  fair  and  bright  things  of  earth 
faded  before  it. 

They  who  ate  of  the  Fruit  of  this  Tree  should  hunger 
no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more,  neither  should  they,  ever 
after,  lack  any  good  thing. 

Beneath  its  branches  the  sxm  should  not  fall  upon  them, 
nor  any  heat.  It  should  be  a  covert  from  the  storm,  a  hid 
ing  place  from  the  tempest;  and  the  serpent,  whose  head  had 


206  By  the  Sea. 

been  deeply  bruised,  should  never  beguile  them  more 
charmed  he  never  so  wisely. 

And  this  Fruit  is  free  to  all !  For  God,  who  planted  this 
Tree — the  Healer  of  that  fearful  and  deadly  disease  which 
came  with  the  poisonous  fruit,  so  wickedly  eaten  — the  poison 
destroying  the  body,  the  disobedience,  destroying  the  soul, 
— God,  himself,  who  planted  this  Tree,  the  Tree  of  the  won 
drous  Cross, — 

The  aged  man  raised  himself  up  upon  his  cushions,  and 
lifted  his  eyes  towards  heaven, — 

"'  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest;  on  earth,  peace,  good-will 
to  man  !'  He  has  said  to  every  one,  '  Come,  eat,  be  healed, 
and  live  forever !'  " 

And  then  Brendice's  voice,  now  in  her  native  tongue, 
for  the  words,  to  her,  seemed  to  lose  a  portion  of  their  sweet 
ness  in  the  translation,  and  now  in  the  language  which 
she  spoke  quite  as  well,  rose  sweet  and  clear  in  the  simple 
rhymes  she  tried  to  weave  out  of  the  words  the  old  gen 
tleman  had  uttered.  In  listening  to  him,  the  Christmas 
carol  she  had  learned  years  ago,  and  fragments  of  which  had 
been  on  her  lips  many  times  that  day,  passed  entirely 
from  her  recollection. 

Her  voice  rose  singularly  clear  and  sweet,  notwithstanding 
the  slight  tremulousness  of  her  tones,  which,  however,  no 
feeling  of  embarrassment,  but  simply  the  sense  of  loneliness 
and  isolation  that  stole  over  her,  while  he  was  speaking, 
had  caused  : 


Christmas  Eve.  207 

Glorie  a  Dleu! 
Not  to  the  tree 
In  the  midst  of  the  garden, 

Though  pleasant  to  see, 

And  laden  with  fruits  the  most  rich  and  most  rare, 
For  the  breath  of  the  serpent  was  felt  on  the  air, 
And  the  long  night  that  followed 

Of  darkness  and  pain, 
Caught  never  a  sound 
Of  the  welcome  refrain  : 

Bonne  Volonie, 
Paix  sur  la  Terre  ! 

Glorie  a  Dleu  ! 
The  darkness  is  passed  ; 
The  Star  in  the  East 
Has  arisen  at  last ; 

And  the  long- withered  stock  of  a  lovelier  Tree 
Sends  a  branch  o'er  the  earth  and  a  branch  o'er  the  sea, 
And  the  mountains  of  Judah 

Ee-echo  the  strain 
Which  the  angels  are  chanting 
In  glorious  refrain  : 

Bonne  Volonie, 
Paix  sur  la  Terre  ! 

Glorie  d  Dieu  ! 
Ever  to  Thee, 
Thou  wonderful  Fruit 
Of  a  wonderful  Tree, 

Thou  one  great  Messiah,  Redeemer,  and  King, 
Born  a  babe  in  the  manger,  our  offerings  we  bring  ; 
While  heaven's  highest  arches 

Awaken  the  strain, 
We  taste  of  the  Fruit, 
And  we  chant  the  refrain  : 

Bonne  Volonte, 
Paix,  sur  la  Terre  ! 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

BURIED   TALENTS. 

JKENDICE,  Bren  dice !"  was  uttered  in  a  quick, 
half-frightened,  baby  voice  from  the  doorway, 
and  a  pair  of  wide-open,  wondering  eyes 
glanced  about  the  crowded  room. 

Little  Lang  had  caught  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and 
climbed  out  of  the  crib  to  find  her. 

He  was  a  very  fair  child,  so  many  thought  who  looked  at 
him,  as  he  stood  there  ;  the  little  brown  eyes  beginning  to 
moisten,  and  the  lips  slightly  quivering  5  very  fair  when  a 
sweet  smile  gleamed  out  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  on  the 
clouded  face,  and  a  short  crow  of  delight  came  from  the  rosy 
mouth,  as  he  spied  the  object  of  his  search,  and  ran  swiftly 
forward  to  meet  her,  and  cling  to  her  hand,  and  bury  his 
curly  head  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  occasionally  peeping  out 
shyly,  because  he  knew  many  strange  faces  were  regarding 
him,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  features,  and  see  that  every 
thing  was  right. 

The  old  gentleman  very  near  whom  Brendice  was  standing, 
had  heard  the  child's  voice,  and  had  seen  the  blue-robed 


Buried  Talents.  209 

figure,  with  the  pale-brown  hair  floating  over  the  shoulders, 
bounding  across  the  room,  but  he  had  not  particularly 
noticed  the  child. 

He  had  been  attentively  regarding  Brendice  ever  since  she 
commenced  singing.  In  fact  his  eyes  were  continually  turn 
ing  towards  her,  from  the  moment  she  was  introduced  to 
him. 

He  was  trying  to  realize  that  this  young  girl,  of  whom  his 
landlady  had  told  him  all  that  was  generally  known  of  Bren 
dice  Du  Bois,  so  very  good-looking,  and  apparently  well- 
bred — for  her  fine  intellect  and  quick  perceptions,  with  the 
little  aid  she  had  received  from  Mrs.  Maitland,  were  filling 
up  many  a  gap  left  by  her  stern  instructor — was  the  one  to 
whom  he  was  sending,  almost  daily,  for  the  basket  of  freshly- 
gathered  fish;  his  sole  purpose  in  thus  employing  her  being 
to  enable  her  to  eke  out  a  scanty  but  independent  support 
for  herself  and  the  child,  and  in  solving  the  problem  which 
had  so  puzzled  Miss  Emma  Brown. 

Sally  Jones  could  not  deny  herself  the  pleasure  of  teasing 
that  young  lady,  by  circulating  the  report  that  William's 
offer  of  marriage  had  been  firmly  rejected  by  Brendice. 

Mr.  Hall,  as  he  looked  on  her,  thought  he  could  under 
stand  how  this  girl  might  refuse  the  love  and  the  hand  of 
a  good-hearted  and  sensible  young  man  who  could  give 
her  a  pleasant  home,  and  surround  her  with  all  the  com 
forts  of  life,  and  then  go  down,  so  often,  wrapped  up  in  a 
fisherman's  coat,  upon  the  wet,  slippery  beach,  through  the 
cold  wind,  and  sometimes  through  the  drifting  snow,  with 
the  basket  and  the  fork  to  dig  the  clams. 

He  did  not  compliment  her  singing,  as  many  of  the  guests 


2io  By  the  Sea. 

were  doing,  nor  thank  her  for  complying  so  readily  with 
his  request  ;  but  after  a  few  moments'  silence,  and  while 
the  company  were  partaking  of  the  nice  refreshments  pre 
pared  for  them,  he  said,  so  softly  that  Brendice  bent  her 
head  to  listen  : 

"  You  have  read  the  parable  of  the  man  travelling  into  a 
far  country,  who  called  his  servants,  and  delivered  unto 
them  his  goods,  to  one,  five  talents,  to  another,  two,  and 
to  another,  one?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  Brendice  said. 

"  And  you  have  thought  that  he  who  received  the  one 
talent — each  man  had  received  according  to  his  ability — the 
proper  use  of  which  would,  undoubtedly,  have  furnished  him 
with  the  means  of  making  himself,  and  perhaps  others  too, 
comfortable  and  happy,  and  yet  enough  have  been  left  of  the 
avails  of  his  labor  to  pay  the  usury  also,  when  he  returned 
unto  his  lord  what  was  his  own  ;  you  have  thought,  for 
digging  in  the  earth,  and  hiding  his  lord's  money,  he  de 
served  to  be  called  the  wicked  and  slothful  servant ;  to  have 
the  one  talent  taken  from  him,  and  to  belong,  no  more,  to 
the  household  of  his  lord. 

"  But  did  this  unprofitable  servant,  whom  his  lord  ad 
judged  to  the  outer  darkness,  more  richly  merit  his  fate  than 
he  would  have  done  who  should  employ  only  one  of  the  five 
talents  entrusted  to  him,  and  that  perhaps  the  least  worthy, 
wrapping  all  the  others  in  a  napkin,  and  burying  them  in  the 
earth  ? 

"  I  have  often  thought,  lately,  my  child, — my  own  short 
comings  first  led  me  to  think  of  it,  though  the  idea  has  never 
been  so  deeply  impressed  upon  my  mind  as  it  is  now, 


Buried   Talents.  2 1 1 

while  I  look  at  you,  and  remember  what  my  landlady  has 
told  me  of  you, — that  by-and-by,  when  our  Lord  calls  u?  be 
fore  Him,  for  the  great  and  final  reckoning,  how  many  of  us 
will  Jiave  to  return  to  Him,  without  the  usury  he  requires, 
the  talents,  worth  thousands  of  gold  and  silver,  he  has  en 
trusted  to  us,  the  brightest  and  best  the  most  carefully 
wrapped  in  the  napkin,  and  buried  most  deeply  in  the 
earth  1" 

He  paused  abruptly. 

She  had  suddenly  raised  herself  erect,  and  he  saw  a  look 
of  proud  contempt  flashing  out  from  her  eyes,  followed 
quickly,  however,  by  the  drooping  of  the  lids,  while  an  ex 
pression  of  deep  pain  passed  over  her  face. 

She  was  wondering  if  Mrs.  Adams  had  told  the  old  gen 
tleman  that  some  of  the  people  who  were  his  guests  this 
evening,  had  concluded,  not  many  months  since,  they  would 
be  obliged  to  send  her  to  the  almshouse. 

But  that  was  a  momentary  feeling,  for  the  words  which 
followed  that  allusion  to  what  his  landlady  had  said,  struck 
a  chord  in  the  girl's  heart  which  she  was  always  trying  to 
silence,  and  which  rang  out,  now,  a  music  like  the  voice  of 
many  waters  ;  and  she  bowed  her  head  again,  as  if  to  suffer 
the  swift  billows  to  roll  over  it.  After  a  brief  pause,  during 
which  he  was  attentively  watching  the  changes  of  her  counte 
nance,  Mr.  Hall  extended  his  hand,  and  added,  in  a  gentle 
tone  : 

"  Remember  it  is  an  old  man  who  is  addressing  you,  my 
dear,  one  who  always  thinks  that  the  words  he  is  speaking 
may  be  the  last  he  will  ever  utter  in  this  life  ;  and  do  not  be 
offended  with  me !" 


212  By  the  Sea. 

"Oh,  sir,  I  am  not  offended!"  Brendice  said,  quickly,  as 
she  took  his  offered  hand.  "  I  was  thinking" — 

"Of  what,  my  child  ?"  he  asked,  retaining  her  fingers  in 
his  grasp. 

"  That  if  your  faith  was  mine,  I  would  dig  the  wide  earth 

over  to  see  if  there  were  any  buried  talents  I  could  believe 

• 
loaned  to  me,  and  consecrate  them  to  the  service  of  Him  who 

may  some  time  recall  His  own,  and  to  the  good  of  my  fellow- 
beings,  the  only  usury  to  be  offered  to  Him.  Bat  the  law  of 
love  is  not  the  governing  rule  of  my  life  !" 

She  spoke  very  sadly  and  earnestly,  and  as  if  to  contradict 
her  words,  she  stooped  and  gathered  the  child,  who  was 
shyly  endeavoring  to  attract  her  attention,  into  her  arms, 
putting  into  his  eager  hand  the  delicacies  just  brought  to 
her,  with  such  an  expression,  that  a  smile  came  to  the  face 
of  the  aged  man,  and  he  was  whispering  softly  to  himself  : 

"  Not  far  from  the  kingdom  ;  with  such  unselfish  love  as 
that,  not  far  from  the  kingdom  !"  when  the  child  chanced  to 
lift  his  eyes  to  the  gentleman's  countenance  ;  and  then  some 
one  exclaimed,  hurriedly  : 

"  Mr.  Hall  has  fainted  !  Bring  water,  he  has  fainted,  or  is 
dying!" 

Many  gathered  around  him,  but  of  them  all,  only  Brendice 
knew,  or  even  conjectured  rightly,  what  had  caused  his 
sudden  emotion. 

She  alone  observed  that  Jerry  Greyson,  who,  while  the 
host  had  been  addressing  herself,  was  standing  not  far  off, 
with  that  look  upon  his  face  of  greater  stupidity  than  usual 
that  he  always  assumed  when  he  had  some  purpose  in  his 
mind  which  he  considered  very  important,  slowly  edged  his 


Buried  Talents.  213 

way  to  Mr.  Hall,  as  she  was  turning  her  attention  to  the 
child. 

She  knew  that  his  keen,  searching  eyes,  half  closed  as  they 
were,  rested  on  her  face.  They  often  did  so  lately  when  she 
chanced  to  meet  him.  There  was  nothing  particularly  un 
friendly  in  their  expression,  but  there  was  a  disagreeably 
inquisitive  look  in  them. 

He  had  drawn  close  behind  Mr.  Hall's  lounge,  and  when 
he  thought  she  was  not  observing  him,  he  bent  his  head  low, 
and  whispered  a  few  words  in  the  old  gentleman's  ear.  It 
was  at  the  very  moment  that  little  Lang  glanced  up  into  his 
face. 

What  Greyson  said,  Brendice  did  not  know  ;  but  through 
the  buzz  of  voices  she  heard  the  whispered  words  of  the  old 
gentleman  : 

"  Kachel's  child !     Eachel  Boss's  child !" 

He  tried  to  extend  his  arms,  but  sank  back,  with  a  white 
face,  on  his  cushions. 

No  one  but  Brendice  had  observed  Greyson  ;  but  when 
Miss  Jones,  who  resolutely  elbowed  her  way  through  the 
group  gathered  around  the  fainting  man,  happened  to  con 
front  him,  he  stood  looking  so  like  a  culprit  before  her,  that 
she  was  certain  he  was,  in  some  way,  responsible  for  the  sud 
den  emotion  of  their  host;  and  that  slip  of  paper  which  Jerry 
had  found  upon  the  beach  the  morning  succeeding  Luke 
Maitland's  stealthy  visit  to  The  Sands,  and  which  had  been, 
ever  since,  carefully  preserved  by  him,  thinking  it  might  be 
of  some  pecuniary  benefit  to  its  finder,  was  thrown  into  the 
fire  an  hour  after  ;  and  no  one  but  Sally  could  have  made 
him  confess  he  had  ever  heard  of  its  existence. 


214  By  the  Sea. 

Brendice  alone,  beside  Greyson,  conjectured  what  was  the 
cause  of  Mr.  Hall's  fainting  fit. 

She  was  sure  he  had  bean  told  something  concerning  the 
child.  She  had  not  forgotten  that  lost  slip  of  paper,  and  she 
remembered  now  it  was  Jerry,  who,  earliest  after  day-light 
had  appeared,  came  down  the  beach  to  Mrs.  Maitland's  dwell 
ing  on  the  morning  which  followed  her  death. 

The  child  of  Eachel  Eoss ! 

The  woman  was  dead,  Brendice  had  heard  ;  she  had 
perished  when  the  Essex  was  wrecked.  That  was  her  hus 
band's  ship,  it  was  said. 

But  Eachel  Eoss  had  been  Mr.  Hall's  foster-daughter  ! 

An  icy  hand  seemed  suddenly  laid  on  her  heart. 

The  parable  which  the  old  man  had  just  referred  to,  came 
into  her  thoughts,  and  though  she  could  not  feel  that  they 
were  particularly  applicable  to  her,  she  could  not  deafen  her 
ear  to  the  words  she  fancied  were  murmured  close  beside 
her  : 

"And  from  him  shall  be  taken  away  even  that  which  he 
seemeth  to  have." 

The  guests  were  thinking  only  of  their  host,  and  Brendice, 
clasping  the  child  in  her  arms,  passed  quickly  out  of  the 
room,  unobserved  by  any  one. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  apartment  where  the  company 
had  left  their  outer  garments,  and  found  the  wrappings  of 
herself  and  the  little  boy  ;  flinging  the  shawl  loosely  around 
her  shoulders,  but  very  carefully  shielding  him  from  the 
bitter  cold. 

There  had  been  a  sudden  change  in  the  weather  during 
the  hour  and  a  half  that  she  was  in  the  house.  She  stepped 


Juried   Talents.  2i5 

out  into  the  chilling  air.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  and 
glanced  back  to  the  lighted  windows. 

Most  likely  this  man  would  immediately  try  to  take  the 
child  from  her.  He  had  looked  as  if  he  had  a  right  to  do 
so.  But  she  would  not  give  him  up. 

The  little  arms  were  at  this  moment  twined  about  her 
neck,  and  his  warm  breath  was  on  her  cheek. 

She  looked  away  towards  the  west. 

There  was  a  little  confusion  in  her  thoughts. 

She  wondered  if  she  could  walk  up  to  N that  night; 

if  she  might  not  drop  down  on  the  cold  snowy  earth,  should 
she  attempt  to  do  so,  and  she  and  the  babe  perish  together. 

Then  she  remembered  that  it  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  St. 
Mary's  Church  would  be  decked  for  the  holy  festival  with 
the  emblematic  evergreen,  and  brilliantly  lighted;  and  she 
thought  how  many  hearts  there,  and  through  the  wide  world, 
were  throbbing  with  happiness,  at  this  very  moment  when 
she  was  so  lonely  and  wretched. 

Why  was  not  she,  too,  happy  ? 

She  pressed  her  lips  very  firmly  together  as  the  silent 
question  arose  ;  and  then  her  eyes  turned  towards  the  east, 
where,  throwing  its  clear,  white  gleam  far  and  wide  over  the 
dark  sea,  itself  seemingly  as  cold  and  defiant  as  were  those 
briny,  surging  waters,  stood  the  sentinel  light,  which  could 
always  blind  her  eyes  and  deaden  all  other  perceptions  to 
everything  but  the  one  great  object  of  her  life,  which  rose  up 
now,  a  mightier  skeleton  than  had  ever  before  confronted 
her,  from  its  momentary  hiding  in  the  unclosed  sepulchre, 
and  stalked  by  her  side,  as  with  firm,  hasty  steps,  she  walked 
away  to  her  home. 


216  By  the  Sea. 

The  dwelling  seemed  not  utterly  comfortless  on  her 
return. 

She  had  not  intended  to  accept  Mrs.  Adams'  invitation  to 
pass  the  night  at  the  Ocean  House,  or  even  to  make  a  long 
stay  there;  and  she  had  not  been  absent  more  than  two  hours 
from  her  home. 

Her  fire  was  not  yet  quite  extinguished,  and  her  lamp 
burned  no  more  dimly  than  at  the  time  she  left  it ;  and  after 
drawing  the  embers  together  and  putting  a  few  pieces  of  fresh 
fuel  upon  them,  she  sat  down,  and  took  the  little  boy,  who 
was  now  ready  to  fall  asleep  again  in  her  arms,  holding  him 
closely  and  tenderly,  looking  down  into  his  face,  and  won 
dering  how  a  nature  as  unloving  as  she  thought  her  own  to 
be,  could  have  ever  given  birth  to  such  a  strong  affection  as 
she  was  beginning  to  feel  for  the  child,  and  wishing  that  her 
arm  was  powerful  enough  always  to  encircle  him. 

That  Mr.  Hall  would  send  for  him  early  the  next  morning, 
she  had  not  the  least  doubt.  Perhaps  he  would  endeavor  to 
ascertain  who  had  brought  him  to  The  Sands. 

She  was  very  sure  he  would  not  learn  from  her  ;  and  the 
little  boy  had,  some  weeks  since,  ceased  his  attempts  to 
pronounce  the  name  of  Luke.  He  spoke  it,  however,  that 
night,  with  a  quick  start,  and  a  sweet,  wondering  smile. 

Brendice  had  held  him  in  her  arms  while  the  hours  were 
passing,  heedless,  in  her  strong  purpose,  and  in  her  bitter 

• 

grief,  how  the  time  was  advancing,  until,  at  length,  when  the 
fire  was  burning  low,  and  the  lamp  was  extinguished,  the 
appearance  of  the  heavens  told  her  that  it  was  past  midnight ; 
and  then  she  remembered  suddenly  that  it  was  the  festive 
Christmas. 


Buried  Talents,  217 

Christmas !  She  and  the  little  one  in  her  arms  had  been 
solemnly  given  to  her  whose  Lord  was  born  on  this  holy- 
day, — the  blessed  mother-Church. 

And  then  a  question  came  which  answered  the  half-uttered, 
agonized  prayer  that  had  arisen  many  times  to  her  lips 
during  those  lonely  hours. 

A  far-off  wanderer,  herself,  from  the  loving  bosom,  and 
from  the  Father's  house,  and  looking  down  the  dark,  rough 
path,  whither  tending  she  dared  not  conjecture,  but  which  she 
felt  sure  nothing  could  ever  deter  her  from  treading,  how 
would  she  venture  to  trust  herself  with  the  charge  of  this 
little  innocent  being,  even  if  she  should  be  permitted  to  do 
so  ?  This  Church-child,  over  whom  prayers  had  been  made 
that  he  might  "lead  the  rest  of  his  life  according  to  this 
beginning  "  ? 

Following  her  gaze,  where  would  the  untrained  vision 
turn  ?  Guided  by  her  steps,  how  would  the  feet  ever  find 
their  way  to  "  The  everlasting  Kingdom "  of  which  his 
sponsors  were  daily  petitioning  Heaven  he  might  become  an 
inheritor  ? 

When  Mr.  Hall  should  send  for  him,  in  the  morning,  she 
would  take  the  child,  whose  bright  eyes,  wide  open  now, 
were  gazing  up,  with  a  prematurely  thoughtful  expression, 
into  her  troubled  face — she  would  take  him,  herself,  up  to 
the  hotel. 

She  would  tell  the  old  gentleman  that  he  who  had  brought 
the  child  to  The  Sands — she  would  not  disclose  who  he  was — 
had  thought  he  was  left  in  the  care  of  Mrs.  Maitland. 

That  was  all  she  knew  of  the  little  boy. 

She  wished  she  could  tell  him  the  child's  name.  Perhaps 

10 


2  1 8  By  the  Sea. 

Mr.  Hall  knew  it  himself,  now.  Thus  far,  she  had  no\  been 
able  to  learn  it,  though  she  had  many  times  endeavored  to 
gain  it  from  him.  The  little  fellow  could  not  understand. 

"Brendice's  little  boy!"  was  all  the  name  he  knew  now. 

Lately  she  had  thought  of  a  device  which  might,  perhaps, 
recall  his  vanishing  recollection.  Luke  might  never  return, 
and  if  that  paper  was  lost,  which,  however,  she  now  supposed 
was  not  the  case,  the  child  might  never  know  his  parentage. 

She  had  labored  secretly,  but  with  a  will,  at  the  execution 
of  her  plan  ;  sometimes  hopelessly,  and  sometimes, — these 
moments  occurred  most  frequently, — with  gushing  tears  at 
the  consciousness  of  the  power  within  her,  and  at  its  devel 
opment,  as  the  fabled  Undine  wept  with  joy  at  the  coming 
of  the  soul. 

In  her  work,  Brendice  had  two  purposes  in  view.  The 
primary  one  was  to  learn  the  child's  name  ;  the  other  : 

Many  years  hence,  she  thought,  if  she  was  able  to  com 
plete  her  work  to  her  own  satisfaction,  when  the  memory  of 
his  early  childhood  had  passed  away  entirely  from  the  mind 
of  her  present  charge,  she  would  put  this  work  into  his 
hands  ;  or  if  any  accident  happened  to  herself  in  that  other 
task  she  hoped  soon  to  accomplish,  this  might  assist  in  the 
search  after  his  parentage.  Luke  Maitland,  by  that  time, 
might  be  beyond  the  reach  of  any  one  who  cared  for  his 
crime  or  his  fate. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  placed  the  little  boy  near  the 
fire,  which  she  stirred  till  a  bright  flame  flashed  up,  for  a 
moment,  in  the  stone  fire-place,  and  then,  going  into  the 
inner  apartment,  she  brought  out  an  easel,  on  which  was 
stretched  a  sheet  of  canvas. 


Buried  Talents.  219 

The  child  had  never  seen  what  was  on  the  canvas  before, 
for  Brendice  had  worked  at  her  task  only  at  the  hours  when 
he  was  sleeping.  She  had  purposely  concealed  it  from 
him. 

The  idea  which  had  occurred  to  her,  when  she  began  to 
fear  that  the  little  boy  was  forgetting  his  name,  was  to  por 
tray  on  canvas  the  two  faces  she  had  seen,  in  the  bright 
moonlight,  looking  through  the  open  window,  just  beyond 
the  bed  on  which  was  lying  the  lifeless  form  of  Mrs.  Mait- 
land  ;  and  present  them,  suddenly,  to  his  gaze.  If  the  work 
was  tolerably  well  executed,  she  reasoned,  perhaps  the  unex 
pected  vision  would  recall  the  vanishing  remembrance  to 
the  little  mind. 

This  was  not  her  first  attempt  at  portraying  the  human 
face  ;  nor,  though  it  was  not  yet  finished,  were  its  merits  to 
be  questioned,  either  in  design  or  execution. 

Her  father,  who,  in  his  own  country,  had  enjoyed  some 
reputation  as  an  amateur  painter,  and  who  early  perceived 
the  artistic  talent  of  his  daughter,  had  commenced,  a  few 
months  previous  to  his  sudden  disappearance,  to  give  her 
some  valuable  instructions. 

She  placed  the  easel  so  that  the  child  could  obtain  a  good 
riew  of  what  was  on  the  canvas. 

The  red  flame  gave  an  unnatural  hue  to  the  imperfect 
coloring  of  the  picture,  but  after  a  moment  of  silent  wonder, 
he  uttered  a  cry  of  delight,  and  sprang  with  extended  hands 
toward?  it. 

"Luke,  Luke!"  he  exclaimed,  "and  L'enfant, — no,  no, 
Brendice! — little  Eoss  !  little  Eoss  Aden,  Brendice  !"  and  he 
looked  up  in  her  face,  questioningly,  and  pleadingly,  think- 


22O  By  the  Sea. 

ing  it  strange  she  did  not  call  him  Boss,  and  wishing  she 
would  ;  but  not  knowing  how  to  express  his  little  thoughts. 

Ross  Aden  1  Brendice  wondered,  when  the  child  should  re 
peat  his  name  to  Mr.  Hall  to-morrow,  if  it  would  suggest  the 
same  idea  to  the  old  gentleman  as  now  occurred  to  her. 

But  the  child  was  not  sent,  for  the  next  day  the  little 
errand  boy  came  down,  somewhat  later  than  usual,  to  her 
dwelling,  for  the  freshly  dug  clams. 

The  fish-basket  contained  a  rather  larger  supply  of  fruits 
than  it  commonly  brought,  and  there  were  besides  some 
trilling  but  very  useful  articles  for  Brendice,  and  pretty 
playthings  for  the  child.  They  were  all  products  of  the 
Christmas-tree,  however,  and  consequently  she  could  do  no 
otherwise  than  accept  them. 

But  no  message  was  sent  to  Brendice  from  the  old  gentle 
man,  nor  did  she  hear  from  him  particularly  all  through  the 
winter  ;  only  the  basket  and  the  fruits,  nicely  wrapped  in  a 
fresh  newspaper,  and  the  silver  "  quarter,"  came  every  day 
when  it  was  possible  for  her  to  go  down  on  the  beach. 

Mrs.  Adiins  called  quite  frequently,  on  the  pretence, 
Brendice  felt  sure  it  was  only  that,  of  looking  after  the  sew 
ing  entrusted  to  her  ;  but  she  was  such  a  kind  lady-like 
woman,  so  entirely  unobtrusive  in  her  manners,  that  the 
sensitive  girl  did  not  feel  that  she  was  under  an  espionage, 
or  was  suffering  herself  to  be  patronized  ;  though  she  never 
allowed  Mrs.  Adams  to  make  any  progress  in  the  attempt  to 
cultivate  her  acquaintance  ;  and  Brendice  could  not  perceive 
that  she  manifested  any  unusual  degree  of  interest  in  the 
child. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE  CONVOY  LIGHT. 

HE  winter,  as  if  wearied,  itself,  by  its  unusual 
surliness,  had  passed  away  early,  and  now  it  was 
the  sweet  spring  again  ;  very  sweet  for  the  time 
of  year  in  that  cold  region  where  The  Sands  is  situated,  and 
the  Leutal  season  was  drawing  to  its  close. 

It  was  the  Thursday  evening  before  Easter-day  ;  a  Tery 
mild,  serene  night,  though  a  few  light,  fleecy  clouds  were  now 
and  then  drawing  a  thin  vail  over  the  face  of  the  rounding 
moon,  or  dancing  about  her  in  varied  fantastic  forms. 

The  snow  had,  some  weeks  since,  disappeared  from  the 
plains,  but  the  cold,  white  crown  would  rest,  for  some  time 
yet,  heavily  on  the  hill-tops. 

"With  the  voice  of  the  unbound  stream,  hastening  so 
swiftly  down  to  meet  the  sea,  every  day  with  increasing 
speed  and  deepening  song,  mingled  many  other  tongues  oi 
awakening  nature  ;  and  from  an  open  window,  that  which 
looked  into  the  west,  of  one  of  the  little  fish-houses  on  The 

Sands,  a  human  voice  very  sweet  and  clear  was  chanting  a 

(221) 


222  By  the  Sea. 

glad,  happy  song;  and  the  face  of  the  singer  was  radiant  with 
a  smile  in  which  there  was  no  trace  of  grief  or  care. 

And  yet  the  singer  was  Brendice  Du  Bois. 

An  hour  before  she  had  been  reading,  with  the  softened 
feeling  which  had  come  over  her,  during  that  solemn  week, 
very  many  times,  the  Church  service  for  the  day.  Tears 
dropped  from  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  that  innocent, 
patient  Prisoner,  voluntarily  giving  Himself  up  into  the 
power  of  His  guilty  accusers,  and  His  unjust  judges. 

They  dropped  very  fast  as  she  read  how,  forgetting  His 
own  great  present  sufferings,  and  the  terrible  death  to  which 
the  weary  feet  were  hastening  Him — 

"Jesus  turned  and  said:  Daughters,  weep  not  for  me, 
weep  for  yourselves !" 

And  how,  even  on  the  cross,  he  had  prayed  for  those  that 
had  nailed  Him  there,  and  were  now  mocking  at  His  agonies: 
"  Father,  forgive  them  !" 

Since  she  had  finished  her  reading,  Brendice  had  had  a 
visitor.  Mrs.  Adams  stepped  in  for  a  few  minutes  with  her 
two  little  girls,  who  had  wanted  to  have  a  run  down  over  the 

beach  to  ask  if  little  Lang  might  go  with  them  up  to  N , 

on  Easter-day. 

There  was  to  be  a  children's  festival  at  St.  Mary's  ;  and  Mr. 
Hall,  who  had  that  morning  left  The  Sands,  to  the  great 
grief  of  her  whole  family,  the  lady  said,  hoped  that  many  of 
the  children  who  had  gathered  around  his  Christmas-tree, 
would  go  up  to  the  festival  at  the  church. 

Mrs.  Adams  added  much  more,  but  Brendice  only  heard 
that  the  old  gentleman,  who  she  had,  ever  since  Christmas 


The  Convoy  Light.  223 

Eve,  been  expecting,  daily,  would  send  down  and  take  the 
child  from  her,  had  left  the  neighborhood. 

Would  Mr.  Hall  return  after  Easter? 

No !  he  was  going  to  housekeeping.  His  residence  was 
completed  last  autumn.  He  had  intended  to  occupy  it 
during  the  winter,  opening  his  house  before  the  holidays 
commenced,  but  his  health  was  so  feeble  that  he  did  not 
like  to  make  the  change  until  the  coldest  part  of  the  season 
had  passed. 

His  housekeeper  and  her  husband,  who  was  also  in  Mr. 
Hall's  employ,  were  good  people,  and  would  make  him  very 
comfortable;  and  the  old  gentleman  had  not  yet  given  up 
all  hope  of  persuading  the  lighthouse  keeper,  who  had  been 
a  very  particular  friend  of  his  years  since,  to  resign  his 
post  at  The  Rocks,  and  make  his  home  with  Mr.  Hall. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Adams  said,,  beside 
Mr.  Aden,  whom  the  old  gentleman  took  any  especial 
interest  in  ;  and  him  he  had  not  seen  for  the  past  fifteen 
years,  or  more. 

Brendice  did  not  know,  until  it  was  removed,  what  a 
great  sorrow  had  been  weighing  upon  her,  all  through  that 
cold,  tedious  winter. 

When  Mrs.  Adams,  wondering  what  had  brought  that 
sudden  change  to  the  young  woman's  unusually  pale  and 
thoughtful  face  during  her  momentary  stay  in  the  dwelling, 
at  the  readiness  with  which  Brendice  had  accepted  the 
invitation  extended  to  herself,  and  especially  her  pleased 
assent  to  the  offer  her  visitor  had  made  her, — went  away, 
leading  her  two  li ttle  girls,  she  had  taken  the  child  into  her 


224  By  the  Sea. 

arms,  feeling  now  that  lie  was  all  her  own  to  love  and  watch 
over.  Mr.  Hall  would  not  take  him  away. 

For  a  brief  moment  she  forgot  that  she  had  any  other 
work  in  life  to  perform  than  to  care  for  him,  or  that  some 
some  one  else  might  appear  to  claim  the  child  ;  and  the  glad, 
sweet  song  had  burst  from  her  lips,  and  the  radiant  smile 
had  overspread  her  face. 

The  girls  had  been  promised  that  "  Lang  " — Brendice  did 
not  repeat  after  him  the  name  he  had  spoken  on  Christmas 
Eve  ;  she  was  now  very  willing  that  he  should  forget  it,  and 
he  again  seemed  to  be  doing  so  ;  the  girls  had  been  promised 
that  he  should  go  with  them  to  St.  Mary's. 

Mrs.  Adams  had  been  told  that  Brendice  would  be  very 
well  satisfied  to  receive  from  that  lady,  for  the  sum  due  her 
for  her  needle-work,  which  her  employer  suffered  to  amount 
now  to  some  dollars,  the  simple  straw  hat  and  low-priced 
shawl  that  she  had  spoken  of  ;  and  would  be  willing,  herself, 
to  go  up  to  the  church,  that  little  Lang  might  not  be  timid 
and  troublesome  in  finding  himself  among  strangers, — the 
girls  wished  him,  so  much,  to  be  his  own  sweet  little  self. 

He  wa's  wanted  by  them,  for  a  very  particular  reason. 

They  were  going  to  have  a  most  splendid  boquet  for  the 
Festival,— they  were  telling  him,  as  earnestly  as  if  his  little 
three  years  understood  it  all. 

Mother's  beautiful  house-plants  were  all  in  full  blossom, 
and  she  had  promised  them  all  the  roses  and  geraniums,  and 
they  were  going  out  among  the  hills  on  Saturday  to  look  for 
wild  flowers  too  ;  and  if  Brendice  was  willing,  he  should 
carry  the  boquet  up  to  the  chancel,  and  present  it  to  the 


The  Convoy  Light.  225 

rector,  because,  the    eldest   girl  remarked,  baby  Lang  was 
nothing  but  a  sweet  little  rosebud  himself. 

And  Brendice,  loving  the  girl  for  her  words,  remembered 
what  she  had  said,  and  wondered  how  it  had  come  about  that 
such  a  sweet  young  blossom  had  been  grafted  into  her 
verdureless  life  ;  and  thought  hopefully  and  confidently,  as 
she  looked  down  so  lovingly  into  his  face,  and  sang  the  glad 
song  to  him,  how,  though  he  seemed  to  have  been  transplanted 
into  a  very  uncongenial  soil,  she  would  try  to  shield  him 
from  the  scorching  sun,  and  chilling  winds,  and  to  take  all 
of  the  thorns  out  of  his  life. 

Her  thoughts  were  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  a  light,  quick 
footstep,  coming  up  over  the  rocks.  A  shadow  passed  by  the 
little  window  which  looked  towards  the  east,  and  through 
which,  now  and  then  partially  dimmed  by  a  fleeting  cloud, 
came  the  soft  moonlight. 

An  instant  after,  the  figure  of  a  man  stood  at  the  open 
door-way,  and  looked,  silently,  into  the  apartment. 

Brendice  readily  recognized  him,  and  she  knew,  in-, 
stinctively,  why  he  was  there ;  for  William  Jones  had  not 
come  to  her  dwelling  before,  since  that  cold,  stormy  Sunday 
morning,  months  previous,  when  she  returne'd  to  her  old 
home,  and  he  had  walked  down  the  beach  with  her,  and 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

She  knew  why  he  had  come  now,  and  for  a  moment  all 
consciousness  seemed  utterly  to  have  forsaken  her  ;  and  then 
a  fancy  seized  her  that  she  was  dreaming, — a  fancy  that  she 
was  in  her  boat,  adrift  far  out  upon  the  sea,  without  sail  or 
oar,  with  darkness  above,  and  wild  billows  around  her.  But 
calm,  concentrated  thought,  immediately  returned. 

10* 


226  By  the  Sea. 

"  I  thank  you,  William !"  she  said,  quickly,  as  she  rose  and 

i 
stood  beside  him  at  the  door.     She  had  placed  the  child 

upon  the  floor. 

The  young  man  had  not  spoken  yet. 

"  Miss  Sally  told  me  last  week,"  Brendice  proceeded,  "  that 
she  would  have  some  more  work  for  me,  which  she  would 
bring  over  herself.  "Will  you  ask  her  to  come  down  to 
morrow  morning,  very  early  ?" 

"Yes,  Brendice!  but — would  you  not  prefer  that  she 
should  come  down  to-night?" 

It  struck  him  that  there  was  something  very  peculiar  in 
her  appearance,  notwithstanding  the  quietness  of  her  manner, 
and  the  evenness  of  her  voice  ;  and  why  was  she  so  interested 
in  the  fact  which  he  had  come  down  to  communicate,  that 
she  appeared  to  have  comprehended  what  it  was,  before  he 
had  time  to  mention  it  ? 

"  Or,  what  would  be  better,  Brendice,"  he  continued,  "  go 
over  and  stop  with  my  aunt,  to-night.  She  will  be  quite 
alone.  I  am  going  to  Mr.  Brown's,  to  watch  with  his  son, 
who  is  very  sick.  I  will  ask  one  of  the  boys  to  come  here, 
and  go  up  with  you  to  my  house,  and  carry  the  child." 

But  Brendice  declined  the  invitation,  and  so  firmly  that 
the  young  man  did  not  repeat  it ;  and  he  walked  away, 
wondering  what  was  the  reason  that  the  lamps  over  to  the 
Convoy  were  not  lighted,  and  why  that  fact  should  interest 
Brendice  Du  Bois  as  much  as  it  seemed  to. 

He  thought  he  would  watch  for  the  appearance  of  the 
light  ;  but  though  he  did  not  forget  to  do  so,  or  to  feel  a 
little  anxiety  in  regard  to  Brendice,  he  could  not  find 
opportunity  to  leave  the  bedside  of  the  sick  lad,  to  step  over 


The   Convoy  Light.  227 

to  his  home,  which  was  only  a  few  rods  distant  from  Mr. 
Brown's,  to  ask  his  aunt  to  go  down  to  the  ledge  and  pass 
the  night  with  the  girl,  as  he  feared  she  was  either  ill,  or 
was  in  some  trouble  ;  nor  had  he  a  spare  moment,  early  in 
the  night,  to  go  around  to  the  east  of  the  dwelling,  and  look 
for  the  Convoy  light. 

When  he  did  find  time  to  look  away,  again,  over  the  water, 
the  lamps  were  brightly  burning.  It  was  past  midnight 
then. 

Brendice  remained  standing  by  the  open  door,  after  Jones 
had  walked  away  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Brown's. 

Scarcely  conscious  in  what  direction  her  eyes  were  turning, 
she  was  glancing  up  the  hillside  where,  during  the  past 
autumn,  the  grave  had  been  dug  under  the  cluster  of  ever 
greens.  The  spot  was  turfed  over  now,  and  the  work  had 
been  done  by  Brendice's  own  hands,  a  week  or  two  earlier 
than  the  present  time  ;  just  as  soon  as  the  snow  had  melted 
away  from  the  hillside,  and  the  ground  had  softened  beneath 
the  influence  of  the  sun. 

They  were  green,  mossy  sods,  which  she  had  placed  there, 
and  small,  hardy  plants,  covered  with  swelling  buds,  and 
lifted  so  tenderly  from  their  native  beds  that  they  would  be 
sure,  soon,  to  turn  their  fearless  little  faces  up  to  the  smiling, 
daily  brightening  sun,  and  send  out  their  breath  to  deepen 
the  perfume  of  the  sweet  spring  air. 

Just  as,  Brendice  thought,  when  she  was  planting  them 
there,  the  gentle  slumberer  by-and-by,  after  a  long,  long 
time  had  passed,  and  Earth's  great  cycle  was  run,  at  the  call 
of  the  same  Voice  which  was  now  awakening  nature  to  a  new 
existence, — would  lift  up  her  lowly  head,  and  open  her 


223  By  the  Sea. 

wondering  eyes,  and  look  away  towards  the  east,  where,  in 
the  then  Long- Ago,  the  mild  radiance  of  the  Advent  Star 
met  the  gaze  of  the  learnedly-watching  Magi,  and  the  trust 
ingly-waiting  shepherds  ;  where  the  Star  a  second  time  may 
be  seen,  then  the  Sun — the  Sun  of  Righteousness  ! 

"  Every  eye  shall  see  Him !"  and  she  would  gaze  without 
fear  on  that  glorious  Luminary,  before  whose  inconceivable 
brightness  all  created  lights  shall  be  as  darkness  ;  and  join 
her  grateful  song  to  that  of  the  innumerable  multitude,  each 
separate  voice  of  which  our  wonderful  Lord  shall  hear,  that 
the  long  night  has  passed,  and  the  dawning  of  the  Day  has 
come. 

Another  thought  had  come,  too,  to  Brendice,  as  she  stood 
beside  the  grave  when  her  mournful,  but  willingly  performed 
task  was  ended,  and  looked  away  to  the  ocean. 

It  took  the  shape  of  a  fearful  question. 

During  the  winter  now  passed,  every  day,  since  Christmas 
Eve, — it  seemed  to  be  done  almost  mechanically, — the  old 
Erench  Bible  had  been  lifted  out  of  the  sea-chest,  and  an 
hour  or  more  had  been  spent  in  its  perusal ;  and  its  great 
truths  were  becoming  quite  familiar  to  her  mind. 

And,  though,  on  the  morning  of  All  Saints'  day,  she  had 
believed  she  would  never  again  open  the  book  Mrs.  Maitland 
had  placed  so  solemnly  and  lovingly  in  her  hands,  yet  every 
Sunday  since,  the  beautiful  Church  Service  was  read  very 
slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

Somehow,  after  that  first  Sunday,  when  she  had  read  it 
with  the  dying  woman,  the  Service  seemed  to  have  fastened 
a  strong  hold  on  her.  The  great  truths  it  taught  convinced 
her  understanding  ;  they  tried  so  hard  to  enter  her  heart  that 


The  Convoy  Light.  229 

oftentimes  it  was  only  by  wrapping  her  deadly  purpose 
closely  about  her,  that  she  could  shield  herself  from  their 
influence. 

Mrs.  Maitland  had  prayed  that,  when  she  was  gone,  Heaven 
would  send  another  friend  to  Brendice  ;  and  sometimes,  dur 
ing  those  long,  lonely  Sunday  hours,  as  she  sat,  slowly  reading, 
and  deeply  reflecting,  the  thought  had  come  that  there  was 
a  form  near  her,  besides  that  of  the  sweet  little  child,  if  only 
her  vision  could  discern  Him,  standing,  with  eyes  full  of  love 
and  pity,  by  her  side,  in  the  midst  of  the  cold,  dark  waters 
which  were  dashing  their  great  billows  over  her,  as  He  had 
walked  in  the  midst  of  the  fire, — the  form  of  the  Son  of  God  1 
But  with  a  shudder,  she  had  wished,  only,  that  her  vision 
might  be  more  deeply  darkened. 

As  she  stood  by  the  grave,  a  certain  text  of  Scripture  had 
impressed  her,  very  forcibly  : 

"  And  the  sea  gave  np  the  dead  which  were  in  it." 

The  sea  which  had  swallowed  up,  so  long  ago,  her  fair 
young  mother.  And  then  this  : 

"  And  I  saw  the  dead,  small  and  great,  stand  before  God !" 

Where  would  her  station  be  ? 

Would  she  join  her  mother,  coming  up  from  the  sea, 
wearing  the  youth  and  the  beauty  which  had  gone  down  into 
it  ?  Would  she  take  the  hand  of  the  gentle  being  whose 
fingers  were  encircling  her  own,  when  they  were  becoming 
icy  in  death,  and  who  had  said,  after  the  cold  touch  had  been 
laid  upon  her  : 

"  Something,  sometime,  will  bind  us  together  !" 

And  walk,  with  them,  up  to  the  great  white  throne,  into 
the  presence  of  the  then  inexorable  Judge,  whose  eye  will 


230  By  the  Sea. 

see  alike  the  blood-spot  upon  the  hand,  and  the  deeper 
stain  upon  the  heart  ? 

But  the  wish  that  the  defilement  might  be  washed  away 
from  the  soul,  and  that  no  opportunity  might  ever  be  afforded 
her  for  so  marring  the  body  that  at  the  great  Day  when  the 
offering  shall  be  made  unto  the  Lord — the  offering  which  is 
to  be  without  spot  or  blemish — she  must  stand  without  the 
gates  of  the  city,  stand  there  for  evermore, — the  wish  was 
strangled  before  its  birth. 

Now,  as  she  was  leaning  aginst  the  doorway,  looking 
mechanically  up  the  hillside,  after  the  sound  of  the  young 
man's  footsteps,  as  he  walked  over  the  ledge,  ceased  to  fall 
upon  her  ear,  the  thoughts  which  had  come  to  her  a  week 
or  two  before,  as  she  stood  beside  that  grave,  again  returned  ; 
but  that  smothered  wish  no  more  awoke  to  life,  than  did 
that  cold  form  beneath  the  clods,  and  the  countenance, 
which,  but  a  few  brief  moments  before,  was  so  gladdened 
and  fair,  now  grew  dark  and  terrible  in  its  expression. 

She  turned  from  the  dusky  west,  and  fixed  her  eyes,  not 
on  the  beautiful  Easter-moon,  whose  light  fell  softly,  and,  one 
might  have  thought,  pityingly,  on  the  suddenly  corrugated 
and  ageing  face,  but  on  that  spot  on  the  horizon  which 
seemed  now  a  dark  blot  on  the  moonlit  water, — The  Rocks, 
where  the  Convoy  light  was  not  burning,  and  her  lips,  quiver 
ing  from  the  sternness  of  her  resolve,  murmured  the  words: 

"  Measure  for  measure  ;  pressed  down,  and  running  over  1" 

The  child  had  fallen  asleep  upon  the  floor,  and  without 
unrobing  the  little  form,  or  glancing  once  into  the  face,  over 
which  the  sweet  dream-smiles  were  chasing  each  other  like 
a  troop  of  merry  fairies,  she  lifted  him  in  her  arms  and 


The   Convoy  Light.  231 

placed  him  on  the  bed  ;  pinning  to  his  frock  a  slip  of  paper 
on  which  she  >had  written  a  few  hasty  words. 

They  were  addressed  to  Miss  Jones,  who,  a  very  early 
riser,  would,  undoubtedly,  come  over  to  Brendice's  dwelling 
the  next  morning,  before  the  child's  eyes  were  open. 

The  written  words  were  the  little  boy's  real  name,  as  he, 
himself,  had  spoken  it ;  and  the  request  that  the  woman 
would  take  the  child  to  the  old  gentleman,  Mr.  HalL 

Brendice  made  no  allusion  to  herself  in  the  note. 

When  she  had  done  this,  she  took  down  her  long  hair, 
combed  it  very  smoothly  over  her  temples,  and  bound  it  in 
heavy  braids  in  her  neck,  and  then  carefully  attired  herself 
in  the  pretty,  deep-green  dress. 

She  did  not  light  her  lamp  and  glance  into  her  little  mir 
ror,  as  she  at  first  intended  to  do,  to  see  if  the  look  Mrs. 
Maitland  had  said  so  much  resembled  her  mother's  was 
upon  her  countenance. 

She  knew  it  could  not  be  there,  while  such  thoughts  as  she 
was  now  cherishing,  were  surging  through  her  brain. 

If  her  eager  hopes  should  be  realized, — if  she  could  once 
fasten  her  hand  on  her  intended  victim,  she  would  compel 
her  countenance  to  wear  whatever  expression  she  chose  to 
assume. 

The  tide  was  coming  in  ;  but  the  light  breeze,  sweet  with 
the  breath  of  the  hill-sides,  was  oceanward  ;  and  Brendice, 
after  looking  up  for  a  moment  into  the  clear,  starry  heavens, 
which  were,  to  her  trained  vision,  as  an  unsealed  book, 
stepped  into  her  boat,  and  pushed  off  from  the  shore. 

She  directed  her  course  to  the  islands,  which,  now  more 
than  fifteen  years  before,  her  father,  on  a  soft,  bright  night 


232  By  the  Sea. 

as  was  this,  though  then  it  was  early  autumn,  had  so  eagerly 
and  hurriedly  approached  :  that  night  when  the  lighthouse 
keeper,  George  Aden,  had  quitted  his  post  to  make  little 
Kachel  Boss  his  wife,  and  take  her  to  a  home  beyond  the 
seas ;  and  his  half-brother,  Philip  Maitland,  who,  never 
quite  conscience-seared,  was  trying  to  hide,  not  only  from 
the  man  who  was  pursuing  him,  but  from  his  wife,  his  son, 
from  the  whole  world  and  from  himself, — took  up  the  em 
ployment,  for  his  guilty,  restless  mind  far  too  light,  and  the 
monotonous  existence  which  was,  to  him,  such  a  wearying 
burden. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


BEEAD    UPON    THE    WATERS. 

JJND    how  had   those  years  passed   with    Eachel 
Ross  ? 

The  conviction  that  she  had  done  right  in  leav 
ing  her  guardian,  that  his  charities  might  be  bestowed  on 
those  who  had  a  greater  claim  on  him  than  she  could  have, 
and  the  love  and  tender  care  of  her  husband,  had  stayed 
the  seemingly  vanishing  life  ;  and  a  sojourn  in  a  land  more 
suited  to  her  delicate  constitution  was  slowly  making  her  a 
healthful  and  physically  strong  woman. 

But  care  and  sorrow  had  often  found  their  way  to  the 
little  humble  home  which  Mr.  Aden  had  made  for  himself 
and  his  wife  in  the  suburbs  of  an  Italian  city. 

Several  times  Rachel  had  become  a  mother,  but  the  lips  of 
each  child  had  grown  white  and  still  before  another  echoed 
its  merry  music  ;  and  again  and  again  almost  absolute  want 
had  stared  the  foreigners  in  the  face. 

Mr.  Aden,  though  of  a  somewhat  provident  nature,  had 
expended  the  means  at  his  command  rather  lavishly  on  his 

young  wife.     He  had  not  dared  hope  that  she  would  long  be 

(233) 


234  By  the  Sea. 

spared  to  him,  and  it  was  his  first  wish  to  make  that  brief 
life  as  happy  as  possible. 

When  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  seek  employment,  he 
found  it  very  difficult  to  procure  any  sufficiently  lucrative, 
even  for  the  support  which  Rachel  could  manage  to  make 
very  inexpensive  ;  and  with  his  best  endeavor,  his  business 
was  always  a  precarious  one. 

Very  often,  even  while  her  maternal  heart  was  bleeding 
with  a  fresh  wound,  Rachel,  walking  a  mile  or  more  down 
the  dusty  road  which  Mr.  Aden  would  take  on  his  return 
home  from  the  city,  paused  and  looked  up  the  steep 
eminence,  half-way  up  whose  height  stood  a  little  chapel ; 
and,  forgetting  for  a  moment  her  deep  grief,  prayed  earnestly, 
and  with  child-like  simplicity,  for  daily  bread  for  herself  and 
her  husband. 

One  sweet  evening, — it  was  the  Feast  of  St.  John,  the 
tenth  year  of  her  married  life  ;  want  was  very  near  her  then, 
for  Mr.  Aden  had  been,  for  several  days  in  succession,  in 
the  city,  seeking,  in  vain,  for  employment — as  she  drew  near 
the  little  eminence,  the  chapel  bell  began  to  ring  for  vespers, 
and  Rachel,  though  quite  wearied  with  her  walk,  toiled  up 
the  height,  and  entered  the  church. 

There  was  a  female  figure  kneeling  near  the  altar.  The 
woman  was  magnificently  attired,  though  it  was  only  a 
travelling-dress  that  she  wore;  and  at  a  short  distance  from 
her  stood  an  old,  but  hale,  cheerful-looking  man,  apparently 
a  little  wearied  with  the  lengthened  devotions  of  his  com 
panion,  but  maintaining  as  reverential  an  attitude  as  pos 
sible. 

The  lady,  who  was  speaking  audibly,  uttered  her  prayers 


Bread  upon  the    Waters.  236 

in  a  very  sad  tone,  but  her  voice  was  remarkably  sweet  and 
musical,  and  after  a  moment,  Rachel  caught  her  words, 
though  she  spoke  in  Italian  ;  for  Mr.  Aden  understood  the 
language  very  well,  and  his  wife  had  learned  from  him  and 
the  little  peasant  girl  sometimes  in  her  employ,  the  import 
of  many  phrases. 

She  was  repeating  many  times  over,  a  portion  of  the  pro 
phecy  for  the  day  ;  and  her  voice,  at  length,  grew  stronger, 
as  if  she  was  pronouncing  absolution  over  herself  : 

"  Her  iniquity  is  pardoned !  She  hath  received  of  the 
Lord's  hand  double  for  all  her  sins  !" 

Then  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  and  Rachel,  kneeling  at  a 
little  distance,  forgot  the  stranger's  presence,  as  her  thoughts 
went  on  with  the  lesson  for  the  day  ;  and  Ler  tears  dropped 
fast  upon  her  once  handsome,  but  uow  worn  and  faded 
mourning  dress,  as  her  lips  shaped  themselves  to  the  words  : 

"  All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  the  goodliness  thereof  is  as  the 
flower  of  the  field.  The  grass  withereth,  the  flower  fadeth, 
because  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  bloweth  upon  it !" 

For  a  moment  she  felt  that  a  double  portion  had  been 
meted  out  to  her.  But  the  hands  which  were  folded  upon 
her  breast,  rested  upon  a  little  locket,  and  she  drew  it  forth 
and  pressed  the  picture  which  it  contained  to  her  lips ; 
thinking  that,  notwithstanding  all  she  had  suffered,  the  Lord 
had  gently  led  her,  and  that  through  all  that  might  yet  be 
before  her,  He  would  "  feed  his  flock  like  a  shepherd!"  She 
was  still  gazing  on  the  painting,  which  was  a  striking  likeness 
of  her  husband,  when  it  was  rudely  snatohed  from  her  hold 
by  a  fair,  white  hand,  suddenly  thrust  out  over  her  shoulder, 
and  a  voice,  full  of  horror,  whispered  in  her  ear  : 


236  By  the  Sea. 

"  Is  this  the  saint  you  are  praying  to  ?" 

Rachel  rose  to  her  feet,  ana  turned  towards  her  strange 
questioner  ;  and  the  woman  who  had  been  kneeling  when  she 
entered  the  chapel,  stood  before  her.  But  for  a  moment  she 
did  not  reply. 

The  vision  which  met  her  gaze,  though  she  had  seen  it 
once,  years  before,  was  of  such  surpassing  loveliness,  mature 
beauty  though  it  was,  and  though  the  eyes  were  lighted  up 
with  such  a  fierce  flame,  while  the  tears  were  yet  undried 
upon  her  cheeks,  that  everything  else  was  forgotten  in  its 
contemplation. 

"Madam,  I  pray  only  to  my  Go!!"  she  said,  at  length, 
quietly.  "  That  face  is  my  husband's.  You  have  seen  him. 
You  followed  us  once  through  a  picture-gallery  in  Florence, 
and  you  said,  as  he  turned  his  face,  and  looked  at  you,  '  It 
is  not  he!'" 

The  lady,  apparently  unconscious  that  she  was  addressed, 
so  earnestly  was  she  regarding  the  painting  in  her  hand,  was 
repeating  the  same  words  "now ;  "It  is  not  he!  Pardon; 
it  is  not  he  !" 

She  returned  the  miniature  without  farther  apology,  and 
walked  away  towards  her  companion,  who  was  now  waiting 
for  her  at  the  entrance  of  the  chapel.  But  before  reaching 
him,  she  turned  and  went  back  to  Rachel,  and  stood,  for  an 
instant,  silently  regarding,  first  her  attire,  and  then  her  coun 
tenance.  Mrs.  Aden  was  sure  the  lady  was  contrasting  her 
present  appearance  with  what  it  was  when  the  stranger's 
beautiful  dark  eyes,  proud  and  commanding  in  their  expres 
sion,  but  full  of  tender  love  and  sympathy,  were  fastened  on 
her,  for  a  moment,  years  before. 


Bread  upon  the    Waters.  237 

Then  she  was  a  nicely-dressed,  happy  young  bride ;  now 
it  was  a  long-used  mourning  suit  that  she  wore,  and  lines 
of  sorrow  and  care  were  on  her  brow,  though  she  strove,  so 
hard,  to  make  her  countenance  a  still  cheerful  one. 

Rachel  quietly  bore  the  scrutiny,  for  the  lady's  face  had, 
for  her,  a  strange  fascination. 

"We  worship  the  same  God  !" 

The  woman  spoke  now,  with  a  slight  accent,  but  very 
sweetly,  Mrs.  Aden's  native  tongue. 

"  We  worship  the  saaia  God  ;  we  kneel  at  the  same  altar  ; 
we  are  children  of  our  Father  !  What  is  the  tearful  petition 
you  have  offarad  to  Hirn  to-night,  my  sister?"  and  the  beau- 
tifal  whita  fingers,  sparkling  with  jewels,  fastened  themselves 
on  Mrs.  Aden's  poorly-gloved  hand,  with  a  firm  hold. 

Rachel  returned  the  cordial  pressure,  and  replied  to  the 
questioner,  as  if  it  was  the  daughter  of  the  same  mother,  too, 
wh.3  stood  before  her ;  for  the  look  of  deap-seatad,  hopeless 
sorrow,  which  sudlenly  came  out  on  her  face,  knitted 
liachel's  tender  heart  closely  to  that  of  the  stranger. 

"  I  came  here  to  ask  of  Him  who  holds  the  treasures  of  the 
earth  in  His  hand,  for  daily  bread  for  my  husband  and  my 
self!"  she  said.  "The  remembrance  of  my  lost  babes 
checked  the  utterance  of  the  prayer  ;  and  then  want  and  grief 
were  both  forgotten  in  the  thought  that  my  husband,  de.irer, 
by  far,  than  everything  else  earthly  could  be  to  me,  was 
mine  still.  And  so  iny  earnest  petitions  and  sad  complain 
ings  were  changed  to  tearful  praise/V)ur  heavenly  Father 
never  leaves  H.s  children  quite  destitute  of  aUthg^ood 
things  He  has  promised  shall  be  added !"f  /(^.rf^A**^ 

"  No  1"  said  the  stranger,  but  speaking  rather  to  herself 


238  By  the  Sea. 

than  to  Mrs.  Aden  :  "  Even  from  me  He  has  not  taken  the 
power  of  doing  good !"  and  she  placed  something  in  Eachel's 
hand,  and  turned  quickly  away. 

The  immediate  entrance  into  the  chapel  of  a  crowd  of  wor 
shippers,  prevented  the  hasty  egress  which  Mrs.  Aden  de 
sired  to  make  ;  and  when  she  had  reached  the  flight  of  steps 
leading  up  to  the  building,  the  lady  and  her  companion  were 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  a  travelling  carriage  was  rolling 
rapidly  over  a  highway  branching  from  that  which  led  out 
from  the  city — the  road  which  her  husband  was  now  coming 
down,  not  with  his  usual  light,  quick  step,  but  slowly  and 
weariedly,  and  with  his  eyes  bent  to  the  earth. 

His  wife  descried  him  in  the  distance,  and  concealing  be 
neath  her  shawl  what  had  been  placed  in  her  hand,  half  ter 
rified  at  its  apparent  value,  she  hastened  towards  him,  won 
dering  how  she  should  excuse  herself  to  him  for  retaining 
that  purse  of  gold. 

But  Mr.  Aden's  proud  spirit  was,  that  night,  almost 
broken,  though  it  was  an  approaching  illness  which  was, 
more  than  anything  else,  subduing  him. 

He  had  again  been  unsuccessful  in  his  search  for  employ 
ment,  and  was  now  returning  to  his  home  without  the  means 
4>f  furnishing  his  wife  with  one  suitable  meal ;  and  with  the 
confession  of  his  poverty,  the  extremity  of  which  she  did  not 
yet  fully  comprehend,  he  had  decided  to  ask  her  what  article 
of  their  plainly-furnished  cottage  could  best  be  dispensed 
with,  that  food  for  the  coming  day  could  be  purchased  by  its 
sale. 

A  deep  flush  came  to  the  unusually  pale  face  when  he 
heard  the  story  of  her  interview  with  the  strange  lady,  but 


Bread  upon  the  Waters.  239 

he  was  silent  when  his  wife  asked  him  to  take  speedy  mea 
sures  to  return  the  gold. 

"  Shall  I  believe  that  Heaven  sent  it  to  us  in  answer  to  my 
prayer  ?"  she  asked,  when  she  observed  how  he  was  hesitat 
ing.  "  Shall  we  use  the  gold,  George  ?" 

"  Yes,  Eachel !"  he  replied,  "  as  you  need  it  ;  for  absolute 
necessities  alone,  however.  I  will  ascertain  who  the  liberal 
donor  is,  and  some  time  we  will  repay  her.  Misfortune 
cannot  pursue  me  forever !" 

But  the  money,  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Aden's  best  care,  did 
slip  away  rapidly,  through  the  long,  though  not  very  danger 
ous  illness  which  came  immediately  to  her  husband ;  and 
though  a  former  employer  sought  his  services  as  soon  as 
he  was  again  able  to  labor,  nothing  could  be  spared  from  his 
wages  to  replenish  the  diminished  purse. 

On  the  contrary,  one  gold  piece  after  another  disappeared, 
till  all  that  remained  of  the  lady's  gift  was  the  silken  netting, 
and  the  gold  clasp  with  the  name  Maria  engraved  upon  it. 

His  early  illness  had  prevented  Mr.  Aden  from  ascertain 
ing  who  the  travellers  were  ;  and  after  the  money  was  all  ex 
pended,  Rachel  hoped  that  her  husband  would  never  learn 
anything  about  them.  Almost  every  evening,  however,  when 
it  was  possible  for  her  to  do  so,  she  knelt  near  the  altar  in 
the  little  chapel  on  the  hillside,  and  prayed  Heaven  to  re 
store  to  that  beautiful  lady,  whom  in  her  soft  whisperings 
she  would  often  call  Sister,  all  the  earthly  blessings  of  which 
she  had  been  deprived. 

It  may  be  high  Heaven  heard  those  earnest  prayers,  and 
the  restoration  of  all  her  good  things  came  to  her  for  that 
casting  of  her  bread  upon  the  waters. 


240  By  the  Sea. 

The  strange  lady  herself  thought  so,  years  afterwards,  when 
her  blessings  returned  doubly  to  her. 

When  Rachel  saw  how  the  money  which  had  been  given  her 
was  slipping  away,  and  that  there  was  no  prospect  that  the 
sum  would  ever  be  made  whole  again,  the  thought  had  come 
to  her  of  returning  to  their  native  land  while  it  was  possible 
for  them  to  do  so.  ' 

Her  health  was  now  very  good,  and  the  sale  of  their  few 
effects,  with  what  remained  in  the  purse,  would  furnish  them 
with  a  sum  sufficient  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  voyage. 
She  had  learned,  lately,  that  her  former  guardian  was  now 
almost  alone  again. 

His  sister  was  dead,  and  one  or  two  of  her  daughters  were 
already  married  or  about  to  be ;  and  she  longed  very 
earnestly  to  see  him,  and  to  care  for  him  again,  feeling  very 
sure  that  his  strong  love  for  her  could  not  have  quite  died 
out,  and  that,  thereafter,  he  would  regard  Mr.  Aden  only 
through  her  eyes. 

They  could  all  be  very  happy  together,  she  thought. 

But  her  husband  would  not  listen  to  her  suggestion. 

Through  Captain  Singleton,  from  whom  they  occasionally 
heard,  they  learned  that  Mr.  Maitland,  whose  identity  with 
the  former  lighthouse  keeper  had  never  been  doubted,  was 
still  at  The  Rocks,  faithfully  keeping  the  promise  he  had 
made  his  brother,  and  Mr.  Aden  shrank  from  dislodging  him 
from  the  place,  and  even  from  having  any  communication 
whatever  with  him.  Above  all  things,  he  did  not  wish  to 
meet  Mr.  Hall. 

"While  our  kind  friend  lives,  Rachel,"  he  said,  "we  will 
not  return.  I  could  not  stand  in  his  presence  again,  suffer- 


Bread  upon  the    Waters.  241 

ing  him  to  retain  the  same  opinion  of  me  which  he  has  so 
long  cherished ;  and  enduring  the  eager,  unbroken  scrutiny 
of  those  eyes,  whose  light,  I  have  many  times  nervously 
fancied,  has  been  drawn  from  my  very  life,  leaving  to  me  only 
gloomy  darkness. 

"  If  I  ever  seek  him  again,  it  will  be  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  my  brother  to  him,  and  making  him  confess  how  he 
wronged  me  in  my  boyhood  ;  and  if  he  refused  to  do  so,  one 
of  us  would — 

"The  sea  must  roll  between  Philip  Maitland  and  myself, 
my  wife !" 

And  so  Kachel's  hopes  were  crushed ;  and  the  weeks  and 
months,  till  five  more  years  were  added  to  her  married  life, 
passed  away,  with  much  the  same  chequering  of  light  and 
shade  as  had  been  woven  into  the  preceding  ones ;  and  then 
the  night,  whose  morning,  it  seemed  most  likely,  would  be 
the  eternal  one,  settled  down  upon  them. 

There  was  a  terrible  pestilence  raging  in  the  city,  and  one 
evening,  as  he  was  returning  from  his  place  of  employment, 
from  which,  at  the  half  frantic  entreaties  of  his  wife,  he  had 
absented  himself  for  several  days,  but  to  which,  at  length, 
dire  necessity  compelled  him  to  return,  Mr.  Aden  staggered 
like  a  drunken  man  as  he  drew  near  his  threshold,  falling  so 
insensibly  upon  it,  that,  for  an  hour  or  more,  his  wife 
believed  him  dead,  or  quite  past  resuscitation. 

Rachel  had  not  for  some  months  past  had  her  usual  degree 
of  health,  and  so  palsied  was  she  at  the  sight  of  her  husband's 
situation,  that  but  one  thought  would  enter  her  mind ;  and 
she  knelt  beside  him,  clasping  her  child,  a  beautiful  boy  of 

11 


242  By  the  Sea. 

two  years,  to  her  breast,  and  praying  for  the  death  of  herself 
and  her  babe. 

Her  attention  was  at  length  drawn  away  from  herself,  for 
a  moment,  by  the  rumbling  of  carriage  wheels,  an  infrequent 
sound  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  her  dwelling  ;  and  she 
remembered  that  her  cousin,  Captain  Singleton,  was  to  visit 
her  that  evening. 

His  ship  had  come  into  a  neighboring  port  a  few  weeks 
previous.  Her  husband  had  met  with  him,  and  the  captain 
had  promised  to  call  on  her  the  night  before  he  again  sailed 
for  America,  and  to  take  charge  of  a  letter  to  Mr.  Maitland. 

Mr.  Aden  had  finally  given  up  all  thoughts  of  ever  return 
ing  to  his  native  land,  and  he  had  concluded  to  write  to  his 
brother  to  that  effect,  and  to  tell  him  that  thereafter  he  was 
at  liberty  to  consult  his  own  inclinations  in  relation  to 
retaining  longer  his  post  at  The  Hocks,  with  the  single 
condition  that  he  would  never  seek  him  again. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  the  cottage. 

Its  occupant  was,  indeed,  Captain  Singleton,  and  his  young 
wife  was  with  him ;  and  Rachel,  holding  the  child  in  her 
arms,  rushed  to  the  gate,  to  prevent  their  entrance. 

"The  pestilence  is  here!"  she  exclaimed,  wildly. 

"  My  husband  is  already  dead ;  and  I — I  am  dying ! — but 
my  baby — oh,  Edgar!  if" — 

The  young  bride  stepped  quickly  forward,  and  gazed  for 
an  instant  into  the  sweet  childish  face  before  her,  and  then 
she  extended  her  arms. 

"He  shall  be  mine!  "she  said.  "If  you  live,  Edgar  will 
bring  him  back  to  you ;  but  he  shall  never  be  motherless !" 

While  she  was  speaking,  her  husband  had  pushed  open  the 


Bread  upon  the    Waters.  243 

gate,  and  walked  up  to  the  cottage  door,  though  Rachel  had 
tried  to  stop  him,  and  was  now  closely  examining  the 
prostrate  man. 

Mr.  Aden  was  not  dead,  but  the  fearful  disease  was  upon 
him.  He  would  not  be  likely  to  recover,  and  so  the  captain 
told  his  cousin,  as  she  aided  him  to  carry  the  still  insensible 
man  into  the  dwelling,  and  place  him  upon  a  cot ;  but  he 
would  send  a  physician  down  from  the  city,  as  soon  as  he 
could  return  there.  And  then  the  carriage  rolled  away,  and 
her  sweet  boy — she  was  glad  for  that — was  gone ;  and  she 
was  alone  with  her  husband,  whose  eyes,  most  likely,  would 
never  again  unclose,  and  whose  voice  she  would  never  more 
hear. 

She  crouched  down  on.  the  floor  beside  the  low  cot,  and 
looking  on  the  darkening  face  towards  which  the  soft  moon 
beams  were  slowly  creeping,  she  began  to  fancy,  for  she  was 
not  thinking  clearly  now,  that  when  the  light  should  fall 
upon  his  countenance,  and  her  own,  which  w.as  very  near  to 
his, — it  would  be  midnight  then, — that  breathing,  momen 
tarily  more  difficult,  would  cease  ;  and  her  lips  moved  again 
in  prayer  that  her  life  might  pass  away  with  that  of  her 
husband. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  thus  prayed  ;  but  after  a 
while  the  air  felt  very  fresh  and  cool  upon  her  heated  brow. 
She  thought  she  was  moving,  seemingly  without  any  volition 
of  her  own,  however,  and  in  what  direction,  or  for  what 
purpose,  she  did  not  even  try  to  think  ;  and  then  there  was 
only  confusion  in  her  mind.  Even  her  husband  was  quite 
forgotten. 

After  a  while,  however,  drops  of  rich  perfume  fell  upon  her 


244  By 

brow,  an  arm  was  tenderly  clasped  about  her,  and  soothing 
words,  which  reached  her  yet  dull  ear  like  a  strain  of  low, 
distant  music,  were  whispered  close  beside  her. 

Was  that  terrible  midnight  passed,  and  was  this  the  farther 
shore  of  the  dark  River  ? 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  not  the  soft  moonlight,  but  the 
beams  of  the  bright  morning  sun,  clothing  themselves  in 
rainbow  hues  as  they  came  through  the  richly  stained  window 
of  the  little  hillside  chapel,  were  encircling  her  as  with  a  halo 
of  glory. 

Rachel  thought  of  the  "bow  of  the  Covenant :"  and  the 
voice  beside  her  was  whispering  : 

"  Out  of  the  deeps  I  cried  unto  the  Lord,  and  He  heard 
me !  He  hath  delivered  my  soul  from  death !" 

She  remembered  the  voice,  and  she  looked  up  into  the  face 
of  the  beautiful  lady  she  had  met  there,  five  years  before,  and 
who  had  called  her  Sister,  and  for  whose  happiness  she  had 
so  many  times  since  prayed,  in  this  consecrated  place. 

The  lady  assisted  her  to  rise  from  the  kneeling  posture  she 
had  sustained  for  several  hours,  for,  crazed  by  her  grief,  as 
she  sat,  watching  that  advancing  moonlight,  she  at  last  had 
left  her  husband's  side,  and  wandered  away  from  her  home, 
directing  her  steps  instinctively  towards  the  little  church. 
And  then  the  Signora  Maria — so  Mrs.  Aden  had  always 
spoken  of  the  strange  lady  to  her  husband — interrupting 
Rachel's  expressions  of  dismay  and  self-accusation  that  sli< 
had  left  the  bedside  of  her  dying  husband,  informed  her 
that  he  had  been  properly  cared  for  during  the  past  night. 

Half  an  hour  since,  he  was  living,  though  the  prospect  of 
his  recovery  was  doubtful. 


Bread  upon  the    Waters.  246 

While  the  lady  was  leading  Rachel  out  of  the  chapel,  and 
down  the  hillside  to  her  carriage,  she  briefly  answered  the 
astonished  woman's  many  inquiries. 

She  had  been,  the  past  evening,  on  her  way  to  the  city,  she 
said,  and  when  a  few  rods  distant  from  what  proved  to  be 
Mr.  Aden's  dwelling,  one  of  her  horses  stumbled  and  injured 
a  leg,  and  while  her  coachman  went  forward  to  procure  an 
other,  the  lady  and  her  female  attendant  approached  the 
open  door  near  them,  to  request  permission  to  remain  within 
the  cottage  until  her  servant  returned. 

The  low  moans  and  the  labored  breathings  which  met  her 
ear,  she  had  just  been  listening  to  in  her  own  family.  Her 
uncle, — the  old  gentleman  whom  Mrs.  Aden  had  seen  with 
the  lady  on  the  two  occasions  when  the  women  had  met 
before, — and  one  of  her  domestics,  had  very  recently  died  of 
the  pestilence  ;  and  the  suffering  man  was  cared  for  to  the 
best  of  her  ability. 

Fortunately  there  were  medicines  in  the  carriage,  and  she 
knew  how  to  administer  them. 

After  some  hours  they  gave  him  much  relief. 

His  torpor  had  passed  away  ;  his  reason  returned,  and  he 
had  looked  about  him,  and  called  for  his  wife  and  child. 
Her  servant  had  informed  her  that  when  on  his  way  to  the 
city  to  procure  a  horse,  he  had  seen  a  woman  entering  the 
chapel,  and  therefore  the  lady  had  sought  her  there. 

The  skilful  but  careless  physician  for  whose  promised 
prompt  attendance  on  Mr.  Aden,  Captain  Singleton  had 
most  liberally  paid,  had  finally  made  his  appearance  ;  but 
the  sick  man  had  again  fallen  into  a  state  of  insensibility, 


246  By  the  Sea. 

when  his  wife  returned,  and  for  many  succeeding  days  his 
life  was  despaired  of. 

Most  likely  Rachel  would  not  have  been  alive  to  rejoice 
over  his,  at  length,  slowly  returning  health,  but  for  the 
tender,  sisterly  care  of  the  beautiful  lady — Signora  di  Leuca, 
so  her  attendants  called  her — who,  with  a  female  servant, 
remained  at  the  cottage  for  the  most  of  the  time,  till  Mr. 
Aden  was  pronounced  by  his  physician  out  of  danger. 

In  her  great  anxiety  and  grief  she  scarcely  comprehended 
how  she  and  her  husband  were  watched  over,  and  how  their 
wants  were  all  anticipated  and  supplied. 

But  when  those  terrible  days  and  nights,  so  wearying  in 
their  rapid  alternations  of  hope  and  fear,  were  passed,  and 
on  a  bright,  sweet  morning,  when  all  nature  seemed  rejoicing 
as  in  renewed  existence,  the  lady  came  to  her,  and  put  h3r 
arms  about  her  neck,  and  whispered, — herself  greatly 
moved  : 

"  He  will  live  ;  and  you  will  again  be  happy !" 

Rachel,  with  a  flood  of  tears  gushing  from  her  eyes,  sank 
down  at  the  woman's  feet,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  I  told  you  once  that  I  worshipped  my  Maker,  alone !  but 
henceforth,  while  I  live  " — 

The  white  hand  was  suddenly  placed  on  her  lips. 

"You  owe  me  no  thanks !"  the  lady  interrupted  ;  "I  have 
only  been  seeking  my  own  pleasure.  Mine  is  a  darkened 
life  !  The  one  blessing  left  me,  is  the  ability,  sometimes,  to 
serve  my  fellow-beings !" 

Then  she  went  away,  and  Rachel,  though  she  was  sure 
that  she  had  never  loved  a  woman  in  her  life  half  as  much  as 
she  loved  this  stranger,  and  though  she  believed  her  little 


Bread  upon  the    Waters.  247 

short  of  an  angel  in  purity  and  goodness,  felt  relieved  when 
she  was  gone. 

"  There  is  something  very  strange  about  her,  George !" 
she  said,  as  she  sat  alone  with  her  husband,  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  her  head  close  to  his,  drinking  in  great  draughts 
of  life  from  the  renewed  fountain  of  his  existence  ; — "  some 
thing  very  strange ! 

"  I  scarcely  thought  of  it  when  you  were  so  ill,  but  I  re 
member  now,  how  often,  when  you  were  lying  with  your  eyes 
closed  and  your  face  partially  averted,  and  we  were  watching 
beside  you,  if  her  glance  happened  suddenly  to  fall  on  you, 
a  very  terrible  expression  would  come  <over  her  features. 
Agony  and  hate,  deeper  and  bitterer  than  I  could  have  be 
lieved  the  human  countenance  capable  of  revealing,  marked 
her  fair  face  ;  and  then  if  you  chanced  to  turn  your  head  or 
open  your  eyes,  that  frightful  look  would  pass  quite  away, 
and  the  sweet,  beautiful  smile,  so  full  of  sad,  but  patient 
resignation,  would  return  again  ; — just  as  she  looked  when 
she  first  glanced  at  your  miniature,  just  as  she  looked  after 
regarding  it,  attentively,  for  a  moment. 

"But  she  has  been  an  angel  of  mercy  to  us,  and  may 
Heaven  bless  her,  and  restore  to  her  whatever  good  she  has 
lost." 

Mr.  Aden  responded — Amen  !  very  slowly  and  with  unusual 
thoughtfulness  ;  and  then  suddenly  asked  : 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  this  lady's  history  ?" 

Eachel  knew  nothing  farther  than  that  she  was  unmarried  ; 
that  the  elderly  gentleman  in  whose  company  she  was,  when 
they  had  seen  her  in  Florence,  who  was  with  her  when 
Rachel  met  with  her  in  the  little  chapel  five  years  since,  was 


248  By  the  Sea. 

only  her  uncle,  though  Mrs.  Aden  had  supposed  him  her 
husband.  The  gentleman  had  recently  died,  leaving  his 
niece  a  very  large  fortune. 

Those  particulars  she  had  gathered  from  the  casual  re 
marks  of  the  lady's  maid. 

"  And  did  she  make  any  inquiries,  or  did  you  speak  to  her 
of  our  past  history  ?"  Mr.  Aden  asked. 

Kachel  had  said  nothing  to  the  lady  about  her  husband  or 
herself.  She  had  only  told  her  of  her  little  boy,  why  she 
'had  sent  him  from  her,  to  whose  care  she  had  entrusted  him, 
and  where  he  would  be  taken. 

The  lady,  she  thought,  had  been  singularly  reticent  about 
herself,  and  she  had  not  manifested  the  least  curiosity  in  re 
lation  to  the  antecedents  of  the  people  she  was  so  greatly 
assisting.  She  appeared  simply  desirous  of  seeing  them 
restored  to  health. 

A  few  days  after  the  lady's  departure  from  the  cottage,  a 
gentleman  from  the  neighboring  city  called  on  Mr.  Aden,  to 
offer  him  a  situation  of  profit  and  trust  at  a  place  some  score 
of  miles  distant  from  his  present  abode. 

His  friend  Signora  di  Leuca,  who,  he  incidentally  remarked, 
was  about  to  travel  in  some  foreign  country,  had  spoken  to 
him  of  the  American  gentleman  as  a  person  well  qualified  to 
perform  the  duties  which  would  be  required  ;  and  Mr.  Aden 
could  retain  the  situation  as  long  as  he  chose  to  do  so. 

Tha  offjr  was  very  gladly  accepted,  and  Rachel,  with  fully 
restored  health,  now  looked  forward  to  the  future  with 
brighter  hopes  than  she  had  ever  before  suffered  herself  to 
entertain. 

A  joyful  letter  was  written  'to  her  cousin — Captain  Single- 


Bread  upon  the    Waters.  249 

ton— to  be  mailed  for  the  port  to  which  his  ship  was  bound, 
requesting  him,  on  his  next  voyage,  which  he  expected  would 
again  be  to  some  Italian  city,  to  bring  back  her  little  boy  to 
her — when  the  mother's  heart  was  again  most  sorely  wounded. 
News  came  to  Mr.  Aden  that  Captain  Singleton's  ship  was 
wrecked  only  an  hour's  sail  distant  from  its  destined  port, 
and  his  wife  and  her  child,  with  most  of  the  crew,  had 
perished. 


11* 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


MEASURE  FOE  MEASURE. 

JWICE  during  those  fifteen  years  and  upwards  of 
his  monotonous  life  at  The  Kocks,  and  the  shocks 
were  comparatively  recent,  and  they  were  not 
wide  apart,  Mr.  Maitland  had  felt  the  earth  heaving  beneath 
his  feet,  and  ponderous  ruins  falling  about  him  ;  but,  unmer 
cifully,  he  then  thought,  he  had  not  been  engulfed,  his  life 
had  not  been  crushed  out. 

The  first  woe  that  came  was  the  supposed  drowning  of  his 
son,  the  intelligence  of  which  Greyson  had  brought  to  him  in 
the  early  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Luke's  boat  had  failed 
to  return  to  the  beach  ;  when,  hours  later,  heedless  whether 
the  gaping  seas  made  him  their  prey  or  not,  he  had  taken 
his  boat,  and  crossed  over  to  the  mainland,  to  stand  for  a 
moment  beside  his  wife,  as  unknown  to  her,  he  had  more 
than  once  done  before  since  that  night  when  he  had  first 
sought  the  island. 

This  time,  if  he  could  reach  her  alive,  he  was  determined 
to  speak  to  her,  whatever  the  consequences  to  himself  might 

be. 

(250) 


Measure  for  Measure.  2  5 1 

Jerry  Greyson,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself  alone, 
had  not  mentioned  to  him  the  disappearance  of  Du  Bois  ; 
and  for  aught  Mr.  Maitland  knew  that  night,  or  for  some 
succeeding  days,  the  Frenchman  was  still  in  the  neighbor 
hood. 

But  half-maddened  by  agony  as  he  was,  he  had  been  so 
terror-stricken  at  the  moment  he  reached  the  bedside  of  his 
wife,  by  the  sight  of  that  face  looking  through  the  window, 
whose  lineaments  were  clearly  denned  to  his  keen  gaze  by 
the  bright,  lingering  lightning-flash,  that  he  had  fled  precipi 
tately  from  the  dwelling,  to  return  to  it  no  more,  not  even 
when  the  second  and  bitterer  woe  came — the  death  of  his 
gentle,  wronged  wife. 

Monotonous !  Beside  those  two  events,  nothing  had  come 
to  disturb  that  terrible  monotony. 

To  trim  and  light  those  beacon-lamps  when  the  sun  was 
going  down,  to  watch  them  steadily  burning  through  the 
seemingly  interminable  hours,  and  to  extinguish  the  flame 
when  it  was  no  longer  needed  ;  to  gather  the  fuel  which  could 
never  be  consumed,  and  pile  it  high  above  memory's  ever- 
heated  ashes,  till  the  fires  leaped  out  dense  and  wide,  and  the 
soul  was  scorched  and  the  brain  seemed  maddened,  and  thcu 
to  draw  over  the  unhallowed  holocaust  the  thick,  dark  cur 
tain  of  despair — this  was  the  employment  of  the  night. 

And  the  sole  business  of  the  day  was,  frequently,  to 
wander  along  the  rocky  shores  of  the  islands  with  a  glass  in 
his  hand,  seldom  elevated,  however,  to  the  mainland,  or  to 
the  white  sails  coming  and  going  hi  the  distance  ;  sometimes, 
when  the  fishermen  were  absent,  to  push  his  boat  off  a  short 
way  oceanward,  and  sit  idly  for  hours,  suffering  it  to  move  at 


252  By  the  Sea. 

its  will,  repeating  to  himself,  as  he  often  did,  the  words  of 
"  the  gentle  angler  "  : 

"•watch  the  sun  to  rise  and  set, 
And  m3ditate  my  time  away, 
And  beg  a  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave  !" 

That  was  the  only  future  Mr.  Maitland  came,  at  length,  to 
look  forward  to. 

While  he  knew  his  wife  and  son  to  be  living,  he  had  been 
hoping — 'Very  faintly,  indeed,  sometimes,  but  always  hoping — 
that,  at  length,  he  would  be  released  from  his  self-imposed 
imprisonment,  which,  now  and  then,  but  for  the  sake  of  those 
on  whom  it  would  bring  such  sorrow  and  shame,  seemed 
more  intolerable  than  the  most  ignominious  death  would  be. 

Perhaps  Du  Bois,  for  whose  residence  at  The  Sands  Mr. 
Maitland  easily  enough  accounted,  might,  in  time,  give  up 
watching  and  waiting  for  his  return  to  his  wife  and  son,  and 
quit  the  neighborhood. 

Then, — though  he  would  not  break  the  promise  made  to 
his  brother,  never  to  resign  his  post  without  the  knowledge 
and  consent  of  George  Aden,  or,  while  their  old  friend  Mr. 
Hall  was  living,  suffer  the  exchange  of  "  keepers  "  which  had 
been  made  at  the  lighthouse  to  be  known  without  the 
acknowledgment  of  his  youthful  crime, — he  might  have  some 
communication  with  his  son. 

Most  likely,  after  Mr.  Hall's  decease,  intelligence  of  which, 
knowing  the  feebleness  of  the  old  man's  health  at  the  time 
his  ward  had  left  him,  he  wondered  year  after  year,  did  not 
reach  him  through  Greyson,  his  half-brother  would  return  ; 
and  then,  if  lie  could  safely  do  so,  he  would  leave  the  island. 


Measure  for  Measure.  263 

But  after  those  two  great  sorrows  came,  he  looked  forward 
only  to  the  release  which  death  would  bring. 

No  one,  he  believed,  but  Greyson,  had  ever  suspected  that 
he  was  not  George  Aden  ;  and  the  fisherman,  who  plainly 
perceived  that  he  would  gain  nothing  by  the  disclosure  of 
the  secret,  even  if  it  were  a  very  important  one  to  the  light 
house  keeper,  and  who,  as  has  been  before  remarked,  never 
concerned  himself  with  any  affair  which  was  not  likely  to 
bring  him  some  pecuniary  profit,  manifested,  after  the  first 
shock  of  disappointment  at  the  frustration  of  his  hopes  in 
regard  to  Miss  Sally  Jones  was  over,  as  much  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  th'e  present  keeper,  as  he  had  done  in  that  of  the 
"  Commodore." 

The  increase  of  pay,  slight  as  it  was,  for  the  services  ren 
dered,  satisfied  Jerry  perfectly. 

Mr.  Maitland  could  not  have  afforded  a  large  sum  for  the 
lulling  of  the  fisherman's  suspicions.  His  salary,  and  that  was 
small,  was  all  the  means  at  his  command  ;  and  of  this  a  por 
tion  was  scrupulously  put  aside,  so  that  when  the  time 
should  come  at  which  he  might  safely  do  so,  a  comfortable 
home  could  be  provided  for  the  deserted  woman  who  was 
now  laboring  so  incessantly. 

On  the  night  when  he  had  first  gone  over  to  the  light 
house,  and  persuaded  his  brother  to  allow  him  to  remain 
there,  he  had,  at  the  moment  of  parting  with  Vn'm,  and  un- 
perceived  by  George  Aden,  thrust  a  wallet  which  had  just 
been  well  filled,  for  the  purpose  of  paying  off  the  workmen 
employed  on  the  house,  into  his  coat  pocket;  so  carelessly, 
however,  that  it  had  fallen  thence  into  the  sea  as  Mr.  Aden 
stepped  into  his  boat. 


254  By  the  Sea. 

Mr.  Maitland  was  forgetful,  at  tLe  time,  that  that  was  all 
the  money  at  his  immediate  control  ;  and  the  wealth  so 
guiltily  taken  from  others,  was,  in  his  present  situation, 
entirely  beyond  his  reach. 

He  could  neither  use  it  himself,  nor  return  it  to  its  right 
ful  owner,  without  confessing  his  great  crime. 

After  his  wife,  and  as  he  supposed,  his  son  were  dead, 
feeling  sometimes  that  his  own  life  would  soon  be  ended,  he 
had  written  a  letter  which  would  come  into  his  brother's 
hands  after  his — Mr.  Maitland's — death,  in  which  he  had  told 
the  whole  story  of  his  terrible  sin,  and  described  the  place 
where  that  wealth  was  concealed,  that  George  might  find  it 
and  see  that  it  was  rightly  disposed  of. 

Occasionally  within  the  first  two  or  three  years  after  he 
had  taken  up  his  residence  at  the  island,  and  once  or  twice 
more  recently,  the  few  people  in  the  neighborhood  who  were 
friends  of  George  Aden  endeavored  to  keep  up  an  acquaint 
ance  with  the  lighthouse  keeper.  The  visitors,  however, 
Mr.  Maitland  took  good  care  never  to  see.  The  invitations 
to  go  over  to  the  mainland  were  always  declined  in  such  a 
manner  that  they  were  seldom  repeated  by  any  one  except 
the  old  gentleman,  Mr.  Hall,  after  his  return  to  the  vicinity ; 
and  the  infrequent  letters  he  received,  a  search  among  the 
carefully-preserved  papers  of  his  brother  enabled  him  to 
reply  to  in  a  manner  which  created  no  surprise  in  the  cor 
respondents.  In  his  solitary  walks  along  the  shores  of  the 
island,  whenever  he  was  hailed  by  the  fishermen,  whose 
homes  were  at  The  Hocks  or  The  Sands,  he  was  always  called 
Commodore,  or  Mr.  Aden. 

Greyson,  however,  began  at  length  to  suspect  that  there 


Measure  for  Measure.  255 

was  some  one  beside  himself  who  did  not  believe  that  the 
lighthouse  keeper  had  a  right  to  answer  to  those  names  ;  and 
after  the  disappearance  of  her  father,  he  began,  very  care 
fully,  to  watch  the  movements  of  Brendice  Du  Bois. 

But  during  the  week  referred  to  in  a  preceding  chapter,  the 
week  before  Easter,  the  fisherman  had  been  away  from  his 
home,  back  some  miles  from  the  coast,  and  was  not  expect 
ing  to  return  until  Saturday  night ;  and  the  girl's  boat  had 
moved  away  from  the  shore  in  the  direction  of  The  -Bocks, 
on  the  eve  of  Good  Friday,  when  the  Convoy  lamps  were  not 
lighted,  unperceived  by  any  one. 

After  his  great  sorrows  had  come,  Mr.  Maitland,  as  has 
been  said,  began  to  look  forward  to  death  alone  for  release 
from  his  present  sufferings. 

Through  the  last  terrible  winter,  the  mind  began  to  com 
municate  its  ailments  to  the  physical  system. 

Several  times,  when  the  spring  was  approaching,  as  he 
went  over  that  flight  of  steps  which  seemed  daily  to  increase 
in  steepness  and  in  the  number  of  its  windings,  he  had  sud 
denly  paused  and  shivered  with  something  which  was  not 
simply  coldness  ;  and,  after  a  moment  of  strange  surprise, 
almost  of  fear,  he  had  looked  cautiously  over  his  right 
shoulder,  feeling  that  a  form,  from  which  some  deadly  emana 
tion  proceeded,  had  drawn  close  to  his  side. 

He  had  always  sat  down  upon  the  stairs  and  rested  for  a 
brief  space,  when  that  disagreeable  sensation  was  passing 
away  ;  and  when  it  was  quite  gone,  and  he  rose  again  to  his 
feet,  he  was  not  perfectly  sure  that  he  had  not  been,  for  a 
few  minutes,  sleeping. 

Every  time  that  feeling  had  stolen  over  him,  that  dread 


256  By  the  Sea. 

form  seemed  to  draw  nearer  ;  and  when  it  passed  away, 
though  wondering  why  the  slumber  came  so  suddenly,  he 
was  more  convinced  than  before  that  he  had  simply  been 
dreaming. 

But  on  one  pleasant  spring  morning,  that  Presence  did 
more  than  merely  draw  near  and  stand  by  his  side  ;  and  the 
stupor  which  followed  never  quite  passed  away. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Maunday  Thursday. 

He  had  not  been  feeling  very  well  for  a  few  days  past ;  but 
that  morning,  when  he  had  extinguished  his  lamps,  and  de 
scended  the  topmost  turn  of  that  long  flight  of  steps,  and  had 
paused  to  look  out  upon  the  ocean,  he  was  thinking  that  he 
had  not  felt  such  a  buoyancy  of  spirits,  and  such  freedom 
from  physical  weakness,  for  a  long  time  ;  and  he  began  to 
wonder  if  there  might  not  still  be  a  pleasant  future  for  him 
in  this  world. 

He  had  promised  his  brother  never  to  quit  his  post  with 
out  his  knowledge,  but  he  knew  at  what  point  a  letter  would 
reach  Mr  Aden.;  and  he  thought,  a  few  hours  hence,  after  he 
had  taken  a  short  walk  along  the  beach,  he  would  write  to 
George  ;  the  letter  to  be  given  to  G-reyson  when  he  came 
over  to  the  island  the  next  Saturday  evening.  He  and  his 
brother  had-  agreed  in  what  manner  to  address  each  other,  if 
either  ever  wished  to  open  a  correspondence. 

During  the  preceding  night  he  had  written  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Hall,  in  reply  to  those  frequently^ent  him,  to  answer  at  once, 
and  forever,  the  gentleman's  earnest  entreaties  that  George 
"  would  make  his  future  home  with  his  old  friend."  In  the 
reply  he  wrote  his  own  name — Philip  Maitland — and  con 
fessed  the  ingratitude  and  crimes  of  his  youth,  and  begged  of 


Measure  for  Measure.  25 7 

Mr.  Hall,  if  he  could  pity  and  forgive  him,  never  to  seek  him 
or  address  him  again. 

He  had  not  decided,  after  it  was  completed,  to  send  this 
letter  to  his  former  friend.  The  fancy  had  seized  him  to  pen 
the  few  lines  ;  he  could  not  have  told  why.  He  would  make 
up  his  mind,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  whether  or  not  to 
send  it ;  perhaps  when  he  was  determining  what  he  would 
write  to  George. 

There  might  be  a  pleasant  future  ready  to  open  before  him 
still.  He  was  not  an  old  man  yet,  hardly  fifty-three  ;  and  the 
various  schemes  for  the  acquisition  of  wealth  and  happiness 
— he  had  decided  that  henceforth  he  would  employ  no  un 
lawful  means  to  secure  either — which  presented  themselves 
to  his  mind,  were  so  engrossing  his  thoughts  that  he  did  not 
heed  how  the  time  was  passing,  until  the  sun  had  turned  an 
angle  of  the  lighthouse,  and  was  shining  brightly  upon  his  face. 

Then  he  looked  up  straight  at  the  luminary,  and  won 
dered,  in  a  dull  way,  why  his  eyes  could  never  gaze  on  its 
glare  before,  and  why  he  did  not  experience  any  warmth 
from  its  beams  ;  and,  though  the  sky  was  cloudless,  and  he 
was  not  dazzled  by  the  intense  light,  why  it  seemed  that  there 
was  a  curtain  of  ever-thickening  texture  unrolling  itself  be 
tween  him  and  the  sun. 

Slowly,  it  seemed  to  him — and  the  cold  touch  which  was 
laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  reached  upward,  over  one  side  of 
his  head,  and  downwards,  the  whole  length  of  his  body,  he 
thought  was  many  moments  in -making  its  terrible  progress  ; 
though  it  had  been  but  the  briefest  space  between  the  first 
fall  of  the  sunlight  upon  his  brow,  and  the  prostration  of  his 
form  by  the  terrible  stroke  of  paralysis. 


258  By  the  Sea. 

He  was  conscious  that  some  heavy  body  had  fallen  ;  fallen 
upon  the  stairway  ;  and  that  it  was  dropping  down,  step 
by  step !  Then  there  was  a  faint  consciousness  which 
appeared  to  come  neither  by  the  sense  of  hearing  nor  the 
sonse  of  feeling,  of  the  grating  together  of  broken  bones  ;  and 
a  flesh  wound  upon  the  brow  and  down  the  side  of  the  face, 
deep,  but  from  which  the  sluggish  blood  could  scarcely 
trickle. 

And  then  there  was  a  long  darkness,  really  hours  in  length, 
for  when  the  half-dead  man  again  lifted  a  single  eyelid,  igno 
rant  of  what  had  happened  to  him,  and,  for  a  brief  space,  for 
getful  even  of  where  he  was — for  an  indistinct  remembrance 
of  scenes  passed  through  long  years  before,  came  to  him 
with  his  reluctantly  returning  and  dim  consciousness — all  was 
blackness  around  him. 

There  was  a  sweep  of  cool  air ;  it  seemed  to  him  like  the 
motion  of  softly-flowing  waters,  and  it  partially  restored 
his  senses  ;  and  looking  up,  far  away  he  thought  it  was,  a 
single  shaft  of  moonlight  was  spanning  that  river  of  darkness. 

He  tried  to  rise  from  his  recumbent  position,  and  then  he 
became  sensible  of  the  horror  of  his  situation. 

His  right  arm,  from  which  the  coat  sleeve  was  rolled  back 
until  the  broad,  blood-red  mark  upon  the  wrist  was  wholly 
uncovered,  and  the  right  leg,  were  no  longer  obedient  to  his 
will.  The  left  arm  was  broken ;  and  between  him  and  tho 
hurried,  fearful  plunge  down  that  long  flight  of  steps, — down 
to  the  flags  at  the  bottom,  there  was  only  one  foot,  acci 
dentally  so  braced,  by  the  hold  of  the  nails  in  the  heel  of  his 
boot  to  the  strip  of  iron  fastened  upon  the  stairs,  as  to 
prevent  him  from  falling. 


Measure  for  Measure.  269 

In  this  fearfully  dangerous  situation  lie  had  been  lying  for 
hours,  and  he  was  fully  aware  how  much  his  danger  was 
increased  by  the  return  of  sensibility.  The  strain  upon  the 
limb  which  was  upholding  him,  began  to  cause  him  almost  as 
severe  suffering  as  did  the  fractured  arm  ;  and  each  moment 
a  change  of  position  was  becoming  more  and  more  absolutely 
necessary,  he  thought,  to  his  very  existence.  And  where  was 
help  to  come  from  ? 

He  knew  of  Greyson's  absence  from  his  home,  and  that  he 
had  not  intended  to  return  to  it  for  some  days. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  adjacent  islands  would  not  care 
whether  the  beacon-light  was  burning  or  not,  and  they  felt 
no  interest,  he  was  very  certain,  in  himself. 

There  was  no  ship  expected,  immediately,  at  the  port,  and 
no  person  would  be  likely  to  come,  to-night,  to  see  why  the 
lamps  were  not  lighted.  Some  one  might  be  over  to  the 
lighthouse  in  the  morning  ;  but  long  before  that  time,  for  he 
knew  by  the  level  moonbeams  it  must  be  now  an  early  hour 
in  the  evening,  it  would  be  all  over  with  himself. 

And  now  that  death  was  so  near,  it  seemed  far  less 
welcome  to  Mr.  Maitland  than  he  thought  it  would  be, 
though  it  was  not  so  much  what  was  to  come  after,  as  what 
had  gone  before,  of  which  he  was  thinking. 

To  him,  no  object  looked  out  from  the  darkness  of  the 
future,  and  no  sound  disturbed  the  portentous  silence. 

But  in  those  moments  of  extremest  suffering,  both  of  body 
and  mind — for  a  stronger  vitality,  it  seemed,  had  been  seized 
upon  by  the  one  part  of  the  system,  when  the  other  was 
struck  lifeless  ;  and  with  a  prostration  of  some  of  its  faculties, 
more  acute  perception  had  come  to  the  mental  powers  which 


260  By  the  Sea. 

were  yet  untouched, — the  past  spread  itself  out  before  him, 
but  not  like  a  wonderfully  painted  and  wonderfully  illumi 
nated  panorama. 

It  was  the  living,  voiceful  reality  :  more  distinctly  heard 
and  more  clearly  seen  than  it  was  when  the  eyes  of  that  fair 
woman,  standing  on  the  deck  of  that  burning  ship,  looked  in 
his  so  trustingly,  as  his  hand  had  fastened  its  hold  on  hers, 
and  then  so  wildly  and  desparingly  when  his  fingers 
loosened  their  grasp  ;  the  glance  of  the  husband  which  had 
been  so  warmly  grateful,  changed  to  that  vengeful,  maniacal 
glare  ;  the  agonized  shriek  of  the  woman,  the  low  wail  of  the 
drowning  babe,  and  the  unuttered  curses  of  the  Frenchman, 
which  were  now  being  fulfilled ;  the  smile  of  his  own  gentle 
wife,  which,  though  it  was  so  sweet,  was  always  so  full  of 
unasked  questions,  and  the  prattle  of  his  child,  whose 
thoughtless  words  were  often  venomous  arrows  to  that  guilty 
heart. 

"Infinite  Mercy!"  faintly  articulated  that  trembling,  half- 
palsied  tongue,  as,  for  a  brief  moment,  he  forgot  his  terrible 
corporeal  sufferings, — "shut  out  the  past  from  my  sight  and 
hearing,  and  I  will  ask  for  nothing  more  !" 

"Was  that  prayer  answered  ? 

An  insensibility  was  coming,  but  he  must  not  yield  to  it ; 
for  with  it,  he  believed,  death  would  now  come. 

Again  lie  felt  that  rush  of  cool  air,  which  had,  at  first, 
revived  him.  And — could  it  be  ?  Would  a  so  justly  offended 
Heaven  be  merciful  to  him  ? 

Was  that  faint,  echoing  sound  coming  up  the  stairs,  a 
human  footfall,  or  was  his  reason  forsaking  him  ? 

Nearer  and  nearer  ;  more  and  more  distinct ! 


Measure  for  Measure.  261 

Not  like  Greyson's  slow,  cautious  step,  but  uncertain,  and 
with  hurrying  swiftness.  But  Mr.  Maitland  knew  that  his 
hearing  was  now  very  imperfect.  No  one  but  Jerry  would 
have  come  to  him  to-night. 

"  You — you," — he  repeated,  in  a  feeble,  tremulous  voice. 

He  remembered  the  fisherman's  name  well  enough,  but  he 
could  not  utter  it ;  and  he  strove  earnestly,  though  vainly, 
he  thought,  to  find  words  which  would  express  what  he 
wished  to  say. 

But  the  eager  listener  who  paused  on  the  stairs  a  few  steps 
below  the  prostrate  man,  understood  the  words  of  deep 
thankfulness  which  issued  from  his  lips,  that  some  one  had 
come  to  his  aid  ;  the  request  to  pass  by  him  very  cautiously 
and  hasten  up  to  the  lamps,  which  were  ready  to  be  lighted, 
and  then,  taking  along  the  strong  rope  that  would  be  found 
easily  enough  as  soon  as  the  lights  were  burning,  hurry  back 
to  him.  And  then,  the  light,  swift  tread  went  on. 

Mr.  Maitland  fancied  that  they  were  flowing  garments 
which  swept  past  him,  and  "when  the  person  darted  through 
that  shaft  of  moonlight,  he  thought  it  wore  the  figure  of  a 
woman  ;  but,  of  course,  he  must  be  mistaken. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  collect  his  scattered  senses 
and  to  gather  strength  from  hope,  to  bear  his  removal  to  a 
place  of  safety,  which  Greyson  would,  undoubtedly,  be  able 
to  effect ;  sending  up  an  earnest,  wordless  petition  to  Heaven 
— it  was  a  strange  thing  for  Mr.  Maitland  to  pray  for  himself 
— that  life  and  reason  might  be  spared  him  till  he  could  car 
ry  out  the  resolutions  which  had  been  suddenly  formed  in  his 
mind,  when  his  strained  ear  was  listening  to  the  first  footfall 
upon,  the  stairs. 


262  By  the  Sea. 

A  strange  peace  came  to  the  agonized  heart  when  that 
prayer  silently  arose,  and  a  calmness  and  collectedness  of 
thought  to  the  widely-tortured  brain.  When  he  looked  up 
again,  thinking  it  was  time  that  Jerry  should  return  to  him, 
the  lamps  were  brightly  burning  ;  but  the  light  which  fell 
about  him  did  not  all  proceed  from  the  beacon  lamps. 

Some  one  who  stood  beside  him  was  holding  an  unclosed 
lantern  about  his  head,  and  the  blaze,  flashing  out  in  the 
brisk  current  of  air  coming  up  the  long  stairway,  was  glaring 
so  dazzlingiy  in  his  face,  that,  for  a  moment,  he  saw  nothing 
but  the  light. 

When  he  looked  again,  however,  the  lantern  had  been 
placed  on  a  step  above  his  head,  and  the  brightness  fell  full 
on  the  countenance  of  the  one  at  his  side.  It  was  not  Jerry 
Greyson,  but  a  tall,  stately  woman,  of  elegant  form,  and 
transcendently  beautiful  face  ; — that  face  whose  features,  for 
now  nigh  twenty  years,  had  been  engraving  themselves  more 
and  more  deeply  upon  his  memory. 

Her  arms  were  folded  over  her  breast,  and  though  a  most 
sweet  smile  was  dimpling  the  flushed  cheek,  wreathing  the 
parted  lips,  and  dancing  about  the  brilliant  dark  eyes,  the 
poise  of  the  head,  and  the  position  of  the  whole  figure,  was 
that  of  proud  and  exultant  triumph. 

The  feeble  gaze  of  the  prostrate  man  grew  keener  as  his 
eyes  erested  on  Brendice  Du  Bois. 

He  knew  who  she  was  by  her  striking  resemblance  to  the 
woman  he  had  suffered  to  drop  into  the  sea. 

He  had  looked  on.  her  countenance  before,  though  a  great 
change  had  passsd  over  her  since  the  night  he  had  seen  that 
face  peering  through  the  window  when  he  was  standing,  for 


Measure  for  Measure.  263 

the  last  time,  by  the  bed  of  his  slumbering  wife.  This  was 
the  girl  concerning  whom  Greyson  had,  several  times,  thrown 
out  some  dark  hints,  which  Mr.  Maitland  understood  now 
well  enough. 

The  man  he  had  so  terribly  wronged  had  failed  to  find 
him  ;  but  his  daughter  had  discovered  where  he  was,  and 
fate  had  delivered  him  into  her  hands. 

Those  hands,  he  knew,  had  no  "  sweet  mercy  "  in  them,  for 
as  his  gaze  dropped,  for  an  instant,  from  her  face,  he  saw, 
though  they  were  still  folded  upon  her  breast,  that  the  fin 
gers  were  beginning  to  move  convulsively  ;  and  when  he 
again  looked  up,  the  smile  had  faded  from  the  features,  the 
head  was  thrown  forward,  the  nether  lip  held  between  the 
teeth,  and  there  was  a  chill  and  a  terror  to  the  beholder,  in 
the  fixed  gaze  of  the  dim,  half-closed  eyes. 

"  I  accept  my  fate !"  Mr.  Maitland  said. 

The  extremity  of  despair  gave  him,  for  a  moment,  power 
to  utter  the  words  very  intelligibly. 

"  It  is  right  that  I  am  lying  here,  helpless,  at  your  feet ; — 
right  that  I  should  die  before  your  eyes,  when  your  hands 
could  save  me !  I  would  that  the  past  could  be  undone,  but 
the  dead  cannot  be  restored  to  life  by  the  bitter  repentance 
of  the  murderer.  "What  I  can,  I  will  return  to  you.  Your 
wealth"— 

His  strength  was  entirely  exhausted  ;  his  lips  moved  only 
silently. 

Brendice  uttered  a  single  word. 

He  did  not  know  what  it  was.  A  sound  which  seemed  to 
come  from  a  very  great  distance  fell  softly  and  sweetly  as  a 
silvery  lute-note  upon  his  deafening  ear,  and  to  the  dimming 


264  By  the  Sea. 

vision  the  face  above  him  grew  wondrously  fair  with  a  beauty 
which  seemed  not  of  earth,  and  from  the  glittering  eye  a 
drop  fell  on  his  brow  which  he  thought  was  heavenly  dew. 

He  heard  and  saw  nothing  more. 

He  knew  that  his  one  sound,  but  utterly  wearied  limb 
could  sustain  his  weight  no  longer.  His  foot  slipped  from 
the  stair  to*  which  it  had  clung,  and  now — 

No,  he  was  not*  dropping  down  that  frightful  descent. 
There  was  the  clutch  of  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  then 
he  knew  nothing  more  ;  only  once,  a  while  later,  he  seemed, 
for  an  instant,  to  be  dreaming  that  he  caught  the  sound  of  a 
panting,  struggling  breath  above  him,  that  there  was  a  great 
strain  upon  the  one  shoulder  not  yet  beyond  feeling,  and 
that  he  was  moving,  not  swiftly  downward,  mangled  and 
bleeding,  but  slowly — very  slowly  and  tenderly,  as  if  drawn 
by  the  hand  of  love,  upward  ! 


CHAPTER  XX. 


GLORIA    TIBI,    DOMINE! 

IT  had  required  a  long  and  desperate  straggle  to 
remove  Mr.  Maitland  to  a  place  of  safety. 

It  seemed  hours  to  Brendice  before  her  efforts 
were  crowned  with  success  ;  and  though  she  had  great  con 
fidence  in  her  physical  strength,  and  her  power  of  endurance, 
the  thought,  several  times,  flashed  across  her  mind,  that  her 
attempts  would  be  unsuccessful. 

Her  own  life,  as  well  as  that  of  the  helpless  man,  was  at 
stake  ;  for  she  had  not  only  wound  the  rope  which  she 
passed  beneath  his  arms  around  her  own  wrists,  but  had 
thrown  it  over  her  shoulders. 

She  was  not  thinking,  however,  much  of  her  own  danger, 
or  her  own  suffering,  though  the  feet  which  she  had  bared, 
lest  they  should  slip,  were  cut  till  the  blood  flowed  by  the 
sharp  edges  of  the  strips  of  iron  fastened  upon  the  stairs, 
and  her  wrists  and  hands  were  blistering  within  the  coils  of 
the  rope. 

The  silent  cry  of  thanksgiving  which  went  up  from  her 
heart  as  each  separate  step  was  safely  passed  over,  and  an 


12 


(265) 


266  By  the  Sea. 

agonized  petition  that  her  strength  might  not  be  exhausted 
till  she  had  gained  the  summit  of  the  stairs,  was  offered  far 
less  for  herself  than  for  him  whom,  so  lately,  she  had  thought 
she  would  be  willing  to  peril  both  body  and  soul  to  destroy. 

Why  was  she  trying  to  save  him  ? 

"When  the  perilous  ascent  was  ended,  and  she  had  released 
herself  from  the  rope,  and  sank  down  upon  a  bench  before 
the  open  window,  almost  as  much  exhausted  as  was  the 
breathing,  but  insensible  man,  she  began  to-  ask  herself  the 
question  :  Why  had  she  been  trying  to  save  him  ?  Why  did 
she  now  wish  that  strength  would  come  with  the  cool,  fresh 
air  which  was  fanning  her  aching,  heated  brow,  and  staying 
the  thoughts  which  had  been  rushing  tumultuously  through 
her  brain,  till  the  dulled  organs  became  again  sensitive  and 
acute — that  strength  would  come  back  to  the  sharply  aching 
hands  and  wearied  feet,  in  order  that  she  might  descend  the 
long  stairway,  and  take  her  boat  back  to  The  Sands,  and 
seek,  there,  the  aid  she  could  not  give  him  herself ! 

She  listened  to  the  sounds  of  the  mighty  ocean  ;  but  she 
could,  no  longer,  catch  the  tones  of  her  father's  voice  : 

Bevanche ! 

It  was  only  the  words  of  the  great  Father  she  heard, — the 
words  which  she  would  never  listen  to  before,  but  which 
came  to  her  now  as  with  the  awful  terror  and  majesty  of  Sinai  : 

"  Vengeance  is  mine !     I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord." 

She  looked  down  into  the  water,  whose  peacefully-flowing, 
white-crested  waves,  sparkling  in  the  moonlight,  were  laving 
the  smooth,  shining  rocks  ;  and  far  away,  out  upon  the  sea  ; 
but  there  were  no  eyes  glancing  up  from  its  depths  now, 
either  in  sad  complaint,  or  in  implacable  wrath. 


Gloria   Tibi,  Domine.  267 

Only  the  reflection  of  the  beautiful  constellation,  the 
highest  in  heaven,  was  there  ;  and  Brendice  thought  of  the 
Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah,  who,  on  the  day  of  which  the 
morrow  was  the  anniversary,  became  a  Lamb,  voluntarily  giv 
ing  Himself  up  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  Infinite  Justice, 
that  the  flame  of  the  vengeful  sword  might  be  quenched  in 
His  pure  blood,  and  guilty  man,  repentant  and  believing  in 
Him,  go  free. 

She  sank  upon  her  knees  and  looked  up  to  the  clear  sky, 
and  answered  the  question  which  had  arisen  in  her  heart, 
with  quivering,  but  determined  lips  : 

"  It  is  for  Thy  sake,  O  Lamb  of  God,  my  ever  blessed  Re 
deemer!"  adding,  after  some  moments  had  passed,  very 
softly,  and  with  flowing  tears  : 

"  Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  those  who  tres 
pass  against  us !" 

And  then  thought  ran  on  : 

Out  of  the  boat  to  which  she  had  clung  so  long,  though  it 
was  oarless  and  sailless,  and  there  was  in  her  hand  only  a 
false  chart  of  the  dangerous  seas — out  of  the  boat,  she  was 
flinging  herself  into  a  wide,  deep  ocean,  but  safely!  for 
coming  down  to  meet  her,  walking  upon  the  rough  billows, 
which,  at  His  approach,  sank  to  peaceful  rest,  was  a  bright 
Form,  with  outstretched  hands,  and  a  smile  which  ensured 
safe  conduct  to  the  desired  haven. 

When  half  an  hour  had  passed,  Brendice  rose  to  her  feet 
and  went  to  look  on  the  face  of  Mr.  Maitland. 

She  had  not  dared  to  do  so  before  since  the  thought  came 
to  her  that  she  must  try  to  save  his  life. 

He  was  breathing  more  regularly  now,  but  his  reason  was 


268  By  the  Sea. 

gone  ;  and  his  ability  to  move  himself,  though  the  girl  could 
only  conjecture  why,  aside  from  the  fracture  of  the  left  arm, 
which,  she  observed,  had  dropped  down  helplessly  as  he 
attempted  to  raise  it,  appeared  to  be  no  greater  than  when 
she  had  found  him  lying  upon  the  stairs.  But  she  knew  that 
he  needed  skilful  and  immediate  medical  assistance. 

Would  she  be  able  to  procure  it  for  him,  while  assistance 
might  be  availing  ?  She  glanced  about  her  to  see  if  anything 
could  be  found  which  would  administer,  in  any  degree,  to 
his  relief,  while  she  made  the  attempt  to  return  to  the  main 
land. 

Fortunately  there  were  at  hand  a  couple  of  pillows,  one  of 
which  she  placed  beneath  the  head,  which  had  been  turning 
uneasily  and  trying  to  lift  itself  from  the  floor,  and  on  the 
other  she  rested  the  broken  limb  in  a  position  most  com 
fortable  for  it ;  and  then  she  bathed  the  deeply-wounded 
face,  which  would  never  again  be  mistaken  for  that  of 
George  Aden,  in  the  fresh  water  she  found  near  her. 

She  felt  very  faint  and  sick  herself,  when,  as  the  long, 
heavy  hair  was  brushed  back  from  his  brow,  and  the  dark, 
dried  blood  washed  away,  the  excessive  pallor  came  out  on 
the  wasted  features. 

But  she  quickly  conquered  the  weakness,  and  drew  back 
from  the  prostrate  man,  as  his  eye  slowly  unclosed  and 
sought  to  raise  itself  to  her  countenance,  though  she  thought 
there  was  little  intelligence  in  its  expression. 

The  few  brief  words  he  incoherently  strove  to  utter,  she 
fancied  were  addressed  to  his  wife,  and  she  did  not  wish  to 
change  the  direction  of  his  thoughts  to  the  terrible  channel 
they  might  follow,  if  his  gaze  fastened  on  her  features  ;  and, 


Gloria   Tibi,  Domine.  269 

besides,  there  was  something  in  the  expression  of  that  eye 
which  brought  very  forcibly  to  her  mind  the  fact,  the  ex 
istence  of  which  she  was  always  denying  to  herself,  and 
which  must  no  more  be  acknowledged,  now  that  she  was  try 
ing  to  save  this  man's  life,  than  when  she  was  seeking  for  an 
opportunity  to  destroy  it. 

She  turned  away  from  him,  thinking  that  she  must  delay 
no  longer,  though  her  descent  must  be  slow  and  cautious, 
for  she  believed  that  the  hurried  swiftness  with  which  she 
had  ascended  the  stairs  would  be  fatal  to  her,  exhausted 
as  she  now  was.  She  paused  a  moment  near  the  top  of 
that  long,  unbroken  flight,  and  looked  from  the  window, 
out  of  which  Mr.  Maitland  had  been  gazing  when  that  cold 
hand  was  laid  so  heavily  upon  him. 

As  she  glanced  over  that  stretch  of  water  which  must 
be  rowed  across,  and  against  a  stiffening  breeze  and  an 
out-flowing  tide, —  she  would  have  thought  little  of  the 
task  but  for  ths  aching  shoulders  and  the  swollen  hands 
and  wrists, — she  endeavored  to  exercise  her  new-found  faith 
in  heaven,  and  to  force  back  from  the  eyes  which  were  very 
unused  to  weep,  the  tears  which  the  fear  of  failure  caused 
to  flow.  While  still  looking  from  the  window,  she  fancied 
she  heard  a  faint  sound  coming  up  from  the  spot  where 
she  had  landed. 

She  leaned  quickly,  and  almost  dangerously,  from  the 
aperture  which  overlooked  the  little  inlet  that  ran  up  between 
the  huge  rocks  serving  for  the  foundation  of  the  lighthouse, 
and  she  saw  a  figure  moving  swiftly  forward,  striving  to  keep 
in  the  shadow  of  the  boulders,  towards  the  spot  where  she 
had  left  her  boat. 


270  By  the  Sea. 

The  great  dread  which  seized  on  Brendice,  as  she  looked, 
— for  there  was  no  boat  but  her  own  there,  Mr.  Maitland  not 
having  supplied  himself  with  one  since  his  had  been  dashed 
to  pieces,  the  preceding  summer — the  great  dread  gave  her 
strength  to  go  over  that  long  stairway  with  fearful  speed. 

She  did  not  reach  her  boat  an  instant  earlier  than  was 
necessary  for  its  preservation,  for  the  person,  who  was  a 
woman,  whom  she  had  observed  while  looking  from  the  win 
dow,  had  loosened  it  from  its  fastenings,  and  was  just  step 
ping  into  it,  as  Brendice  suddenly  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

The  woman  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  turned  her  face,  which, 
in  the  bright  moonlight,  looked  deadly  pale,  towards  her,  and 
she  recognized  the  countenance  as  that  of  the  young  girl  she 
had  heard  called  Ives  Dorn,  and  with  whom  she  had  had  a 
long  conversation,  at  her  one  visit  over  at  The  Rocks,  on  the 
day  after  her  father's  boat  had  returned,  without  an  occupant, 
to  The  Sands. 

She  was,  herself,  also  recognized  ;  for  the  girl,  whose  color 
quickly  returned  when  her  eyes  met  those  of  Brendice,  and 
who  was  more  embarrassed,  though  less  terrified,  than  she 
would  have  been  if  the  new-comer  was  the  one  she  expected 
it  to  be,  heightened  her  confusion  by  her  attempts  to  con 
ceal  it ;  and  confessed  plainly  enough,  by  her  denials  of  it, 
her  intended  theft ;  and,  at  length,  laughing  at  her  want  of 
cleverness,  she  said,  half  hysterically  : 

"  What  is  the  iise  ?  I  know  you  ;  you  are  one  of  us !  better, 
perhaps,  than  we  are,  but  you  understand  us  ;  I  wanted  the 
boat ;  I  did  not  know  it  was  yours,  or  I  would  not  have  tried 
to  get  it.  I  got  mad  with  somebody  to-night,  and  so, 


Gloria    Tibi,  Domine.  271 

two  hours  ago,  I  crept  down  to  the  beach,  and  set  a  boat 
adrift. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you  of  it ! 

"  But  after  it  was  gone,  and  I  stood  watching  its  course 
upon  the  water,  now  carried  out  to  the  sea,  and  now  thrown 
up  towards  the  rocks,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  looking 
down  at  it  and  me,  I  thought  that  we,  the  boat  and  myself — 
were  very  much  alike. 

"  Did  you  ever  think  you  would  like  to  be  good  ?"  she 
interrupted  herself  to  ask  ;  and  before  Brendice  had  time  to 
reply  to  the  sudden  question,  she  continued  : 

"  It  is  easy  enough  to  be  so,  when  you  can  come  in  on  a 
smooth  wave;  but  you  just  try  it,  some  time,  when  the  tide  is 
turning,  and  see  what  luck  you  will  have ! 

"  And  so  I  ran  along  down  the  shore,  to  watch  the  boat ; 
and  as  the  water  was  not  very  high,  I  waded  across  the 
channel,  hoping  that  some  wave  might  throw  it  up  so  far 
towards  the  beach  that  I  could  get  it;  and  hoping,  too," — and 
the  girl  laughed  again,  low  and  sadly,  now,  but  as  if  in  self- 
derision, — "  that  somebody,  some  time,  would  stretch  out  a 
strong  hand  and  save  me  1 

"  But  when  I  got  over  here,  it  was  gone  ;  and  I  felt  sorry 
for  it,  and  for  myself,  too;  and  half  wished  I  was  in  the  boat, 
out  at  sea,  though  it  had  neither  sail  nor  oars  in  it,  nor  ever 
could  find  its  way  " — 

"  And  you  were  taking  my  boat  to  go  out  in  search  of  the 
missing  one !"  said  Brendice,  in  an  apologetic  tone. 

"No,  I  was  not !"  replied  the  girl,  defiantly.  "  I  was  going 
to  steal  it !  I  knew  it  did  not  belong  to  the  fisherman  who 
comes  over  here  so  often  from  The  Sands.  I  thought  it 


272  By  the  Sea. 

might  have  drifted  in  here  lately,  and  lie," — she  pointed  up 
to  the  lighthouse,  "  had  hauled  it  on  shore.  I  should  have 
told  him,  if  he  had  caught  me  stealing  it,  that  it  was  my 
property.  I  am  not  so  much  afraid  of  him  as  some  of  them 
are  ;  and  I  wanted  a  boat  to  take  back  to  the  old  woman  I 
quarrelled  with  to-night,  though  she  was  more  to  blame  for 
our  difficulty  than  myself ;  and  she  will  not  believe  it  was  I 
who  sent  her  boat  adrift,  unless  I  tell  her  so." 

"  Well,  you  may  have  mine,"  said  Brendice,  "  if  you  will 
help  me  row  back  quickly  to  The  Sands !" 

The  girl  looked  incredulous. 

"Yes,  see  my  hands!  You  shall  have  it,  if  you  will 
hasten."  She  stepped  into  the  boat. 

Ives  Dorn  immediately  followed  her,  and  lifting  both  the 
oars,  began  to  ply  them  vigorously,  expressing  unbounded 
astonishment  that  one  so  accustomed  to  manage  a  boat  as 
was  Brendice,  should  have  injured  her  hands  so  much  by 
rowing  ;  and  thinking  it  was  not  at  all  strange  that  she  ran 
her  boat  ashore,  in  order  to  rest  awhile. 

"  Only  I  would  not  have  gone  in  there,"  she  said  ;  "  you 
did  not  know  where  you  were,  though,  maybe,  as  the  Com 
modore  lighted  his  lamps  so  very  late  to-night.  Haven't 
got  any  fish,  I  see,  though  you  did  stay  out  so  long.  Well, 
some  of  our  boats  came  in  almost  empty  to-night." 

Brendice  did  not  reply  to  these,  and  many  other  volubly 
expressed  remarks,  though  she  was  very  well  satisfied  that 
her  presence  at  the  island,  which,  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
her,  might  appear  most  singular  to  her  companion,  was  so 
easily  accounted  for  by  the  young  woman. 

Brendice  did  not  reply  ;  but  she  was  very  busily,  and,  had 


Gloria    Tibi,  Domine.  273 

it  not  been  for  her  anxiety  in  regard  to  Mr.  Maitland,  very 
pleasantly  thinking  and  planning  for  the  future  of  herself 
and  little  Lang. 

Yes !  this  girl,  Ives  Dorn,  should  have  her  boat. 

She  would  never  need  it  herself  again  ;  for  the  next  Mon 
day  morning  she  would  take  the  little  boy  and  go  away  from 
The  Sands  forever,  and  forget  all  about  her  old,  cheerless 
life  there. 

She  would  remember  that  solitary  grave  on  the  hill-side, 
beneath  the  clustering  evergreens,  and  always  feel  very 
grateful  to  the  gentle  being  whose  image  was  impressed 
upon  her  mind  as  sl-e  was  kneeling  by  the  open  window, 
high  up  in  the  lighthouse,  and  looking  away  towards  the  sky, 
as  deeply  as  if  her  actual  presence  was  there. 

She  would  always  feel  very  grateful  to  Mrs.  Maitland  for 
the  patient,  unwearied  efforts  which  she  had  made  to  weave 
some  brighter  threads  into  the  dark  woof  of  her  life  ;  to  guide 
her  feet  into  the  path  which  grows  brighter  and  brighter 
unto  the  perfect  day. 

Almost  with  her  latest  breath  the  dying  woman  had  com 
mended  her  to  the  care  of  Heaven,  and  at  length,  out  of  the 
darkness  of  her  old  life,  she  was  very  humbly  thinking,  she 
would  come  up,  henceforth,  to  walk  in  that  Path  ;  He  being 
her  Helper. 

Her  future  seemed  not  gloomy  to  her,  now. 

Thanks  to  her  father,  who,  every  day  through  that  long 
winter,  she  had  been  thinking  of  with  softening  feelings, 
though  she  had  not  spoken  yet  to  Mr.  Brown  about  putting 
up,  in  the  graveyard,  a  simple  stone  to  his  memory,  or 
commenced  cutting  his  name  into  the  granite  rock  on  which 

12* 


274  By  the  Sea. 

she  had  stood,  so  many  times,  looking  away  over  the  sea  for 
the  boat  which  finally  came  up  to  the  beach  without  a  hand 
to  guide  it,  when  she  had  thought  of  doing  either,  some  feel 
ing  which  she  could  not  account  for  having  withheld  her 
from  the  execution  of  her  purpose  —  thanks  to  her  father, 
both  her  physical  and  intellectual  powers  had  received  such 
a  training  that  it  would  be  very  strange  if  she  could  not 
procure  for  herself  and  for  the  little  boy  a  comfortable  and 
respectable  livelihood. 

He  would  be  all  her  own,  now,  she  thought ;  and  she 
would  trust  herself  to  love  him. 

Of  Luke  Maitland  there  came  no  intelligence. 

No  letter,  since  her  decease,  had   reached  H directed 

to  his  mother,  and  Miss  Emma  Brown,  it  was  certain,  had 
not  heard  from  Luke  ;  for  after  it  became  evident,  even  to 
herself,  that  her  efforts  in  another  direction  would  be  entirely 
useless,  she  began  to  make  a  great  show  of  mourning  for  the 
young  man. 

Brendice  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  learned, 
soon  after  the  night  he  had  stealthily  visited  The  Sands,  of 
his  mother's  death,  and  that  be  either  had  lost  the  interest 
he  manifested  in  the  child  as  soon  as  the  little  loving  face, 
which  alone,  she  supposed,  had  ezcited  that  interest,  was  out 
of  his  sight ;  or  that  some  accident  had  happened  to  him 
self. 

The  child,  by  this  time,  had  probably  quite  forgotten  his 
real  name.  The  passing  recollection,  called  up  by  the  sight 
of  that  painting  which  she  took  good  care  he  should  never 
see  a  second  time,  seemed  to  have  gone  from  his  mind  as 
quickly  as  it  came  ;  and  she  would  keep  it  a  secret  until  some 


Gloria   Tibi,  Domine.  2/0 

one  who,  she  was  sure,  had  a  right  to  do  so  should  appear  to 
claim  him. 

Luke  had  referred  to  his  orphanage. 

Mr.  Hall,  even  if  he  had  any  real  claim  to  the  child,  which 
was  not  very  likely,  Brendice  preferred  to  think,  could  not, 
with  all  his  wealth,  do  more  for  the  child  than  she  would 
d®  ; — the  tenderest  mother  could  not  surpass  her  love  and 
care  for  him  ;  and  besides,  the  old  gentleman  had  returned 
to  his  home,  without  seeking  the  little  boy. 

With  the  sweet  babe  to  love  and  cherish,  and  Heaven  to 
look  forward  to,  and  to  trust  in,  Brendice  thought  she  would 
forget  the  bitter  portion  which  must  always  be  mingled  with 
her  cup  ;  and — 

"  Cant  you  sing  something?" 

Ives  Dora,  as  soon  as  she  found,  which  was  not  immediately, 
her  own  tongue  moved  so  nimbly  that  her  companion  did 
not  reply  to  her,  not  offended,  however,  at  Bren dice's  silence, 
as  she  accounted  for  it  by  the  girl's  very  apparent  fatigue, 
had  commenced  singing,  in  the  rude  vernacular  she  had 
dropped,  as  far  as  she  was  able,  while  talking. 

Her  voice  was  a  rather  pleasant  one,  and  the  boat-song  was 
lively,  though  not  particularly  choice. 

Suddenly,  as  she  looked  up  to  the  sky,  and  saw  that  the 
midnight  was  past,  she  remembered  that  it  was  the  morning 
of  the  day  which  her  mother,  who  died  some  years  before, 
had  regarded  as  most  holy  ;  and  her  careless  face  grew 
thoughtful,  and  she  held  up  the  oars  for  a  moment,  out  of  the 
water,  and  turning  to  Brendice,  asked  abruptly,  but  in  a 
lower  tone  : 

"  Can  you  sing  something  which  ought  to  be  sung  to-day  ? 


276  By  the  Sea. 

My  mother  used  to  sing  a  solemn,  but  sweetly  glad  song  on 
this  morning.  I  have  been  forgetting  that  Good  Friday  was 
so  near  ;  for  nobody  over  there," — she  nodded  towards  The 
Rocks,  "cares  for  anything.  I  wish  they  did,  though!"  she 
added,  huskily. 

"  What  did  your  mother  sing  about  ?"  Brendice  inquired, 
gently, — taking  one  of  the  oars  from  the  girl's  hand,  and 
lowering  it  to  the  water. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know!"  she  returned,  as  the  boat,  now  rowed 
by  both  the  girls,  again  danced  over  the  sea. 

"  They  were  strange  words ;  in  some  foreign  language,  I 
think.  My  mother  was  a  foreigner.  My  father,  who  once 
went  out  as  mate  in  a  merchantman,  brought  her  home  from 
over  the  seas. 

"I  only  remember, —  perhaps  you  can  tell  what  she 
meant, — I  don't  believe  I  understand  it  very  well, — my 
mother  often  said,  on  this  day,  if  the  angels  sang  when 
Christ  their  Lord  was  born — born  to  die,  what  should  men 
do,  when  He,  their  elder  Brother,  died,  to  live  again  forever  ?'* 

The  tears  dropped  softly  from  Brendice's  eyes.  It  was  the 
very  question  she  had  asked  herself  when  she  was  kneeling 
in  the  lighthouse  ;  and  after  a  few  moments  of  silence  with 
both  the  girls,  Brendice's  voice  rose  loud  and  clear,  as  Ives 
had  said  in  a  very  solemn,  but  sweetly-glad  song,  ringing  far 
out  over  the  gently  rolling  waters  : 

Gloria  tibi,  Domine  ! 

The  boat  was  now  nearing  the  shore. 

It  had  moved  rapidly  for  some  time  past,  for  Brendice's 
fatigue  was  leaving  her,  or  was  forgotten,  and  she  was  a  very 
swift  rower  ;  and  William  Jones,  who  was,  at  length,  able  to 


Gloria   Tibi,  Domine.  277 

leave  the  bedside  of  young  Brown,  and  was  walking  down 
towards  the  beach,  looking  away  to  the  beacon-light,  that  now 
burned  brightly,  and  thinking  of  Brendice  Du  Bois,  caught 
the  sound  of  the  voice  which  he,  readily  enough,  recognized 
as  hers. 

He  reached  the  water's  edge  just  as  the  boat  touched  the 
sand,  and  while  Ives,  who  had  consented  to  defer  her  return 
to  The  Rocks  till  the  morning,  as  the  air  had  become  quite 
chilly,  was  caring  for  the  boat,  Brendice  hastily  stepped  on 
shore,  and  drew  near  the  young  man,  addressing  him  in  so 
low  a  tone  that  Ives  did  not  comprehend  the  import  of  her 
words. 

"Something  very  terrible  has  happened  to  the  man  over  at 
the  lighthouse !"  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid,  by  this  time,  he  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  medical  skill.  Hasten  to  him,  William, 
and  take  a  good  physician  with  you;  and,  if  he  is  still  alive, 
oh,  try  to  save  him !" 

"I  will,  Brendice  !"  he  replied,  in  the  same  low  tone. 

"Doctor  Clark  is  still  at  Mr.  Brown's,  but  his  patient  is 
sleeping  ;  and,  it  is  thought,  all  danger  is  passed.  We  can 
both  leave  the  sick  lad  now,  and  I  will  get  my  boat  out  at 
once  and  take  the  doctor  over  to  the  island. 

"  Clark  is  very  skilful.  He  will  do  all  that  can  be  done 
for  Mr.  Aden.  He  is  Mr.  Hall's  physician ;  and  you  have 
heard  how  much  interest  the  old  gentleman  takes  in  the 
lighthouse  keeper.  It  is  said  that  he  is  determined  to  have 
Mr.  Aden  at  his  house  before  Easter." 

William  Jones  forgot,  for  a  moment,  the  concern  he 
naturally  felt  in  the  welfare  of  his  fellow-beings,  in  the 
pleasure  he  experienced  in  lingering  near  Brendice  Du  Bois, 


278  By  the  Sea. 

and  looking  in  her  face  ;  but  her  reply  to  his  words,  though 
it  conveyed  an  idea  to  him  very  different  from  that  which 
was  passing  through  the  mind  of  the  girl,  crushed  forever  out 
of  existence  the  hope  he  had  secretly  been  cherishing  all 
through  those  many  months  past,  notwithstanding  the 
prompt  rejection  of  his  suit  the  previous  autumn. 

"  Do  not  let  it  be  known  how  you  heard  that  he  needed 
assistance  ;"  she  said,  "  and,  William," — in  her  earnestness, 
she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm, — "  let  this  remain  a  secret 
with  you,  until  some  one  else  ascertains  the  fact,  or  he,  him 
self,  reveals  it.  The  man  at  the  lighthouse  is  not  Mr.  Aden. 
He  is  the  father  of  Luke  Maitland !" 

The  young  man  made  a  great  effort  to  gulp  down  some 
thing  which  seemed  to  be  choking  him,  but  he  did  not 
succeed  well  enough  to  trust  his  voice  to  answer  her. 
^  He  only  took  the  hand  she  had  placed  upon  his  arm,  and 
held  it,  for  a  moment,  in  both  of  his,  and  then  turned  and 
walked  quickly  away. 

Very  soon  after,  Brendice,  followed  by  Ives  Dorn,  moved 
towards  her  abode.  Ives,  who  had  been  heated  by  her  swift 
handling  of  the  oar,  and  who  had  not  the  physical  strength 
of  Brendice,  was  now  trembling  with  cold,  and  much 
exhausted  ;  but  she  was  soon  made  so  very  comfortable  by  a 
cup  of  hot  tea,  and  a  nice  tucking  about  her  of  warm  bed- 
clothing,  that  she  slept  soundly. 

Brendice,  however,  did  not  seek  her  pillow. 

She  had  listened  until  her  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
voices,  one  of  which  she  knew  to  be  that  of  young  Jones,  and 
the  other,  she  doubted  not,  was  the  physician,  down  upon 
the  beach  ;  and  then  she  knelt  by  her  Couch  with  one  arm 


Gloria   Tibi,  Domine.  279 

encircling  her  little  charge,  whose  slumbers,  since  his  head 
had  dropped  heavily  on  her  shoulder  at  early  night-fall,  had 
not  been  disturbed. 

She  had  removed  the  slip  of  paper  that  had  been  fastened 
to  his  dress,  and  thanked  Heaven  that  the  Power,  she 
thought  it  could  be  nothing  else,  which  stays  the  raging  of 
the  furious,  mighty  sea,  had  held  back  her  eager  hand,  that 
night,  from  blood-guiltiness. 

And  she  prayed,  very  earnestly,  that  the  hand  might, 
henceforth,  be  so  kept  from  evil,  that  it  could  be  fit  to  point 
out  the  path  in  which  he  should  go,  to  this  sweet  child,  and 
to  guide  therein  his  uncertain  footsteps. 

Then  her  thoughts  went  out  from  herself,  and,  im 
portunately,  as  for  a  very  dear  friend,  she  began  to  ask  of 
Heaven  that  the  efforts  which  would  be  made  to  better  the 
condition  of  the  wretched  man  over  at  the  island,  might  be 
successful ;  falling  insensibly  into  the  form  of  words,  as  far 
as  she  could  recollect  it,  which  she  had  read  at  the  bedside 
of  Mrs.  Maitland,  on  the  last  Sabbath  of  her  earthly 
existence  : 

"  Give  him  unfeigned  repentance  for  all  the  errors  of  his 
past  life,  and  steadfast  faith  in  Thy  Son  Jesus  ;  that  his  sins 
may  be  done  away  by  Thy  mercy,  and  his  pardon  sealed  in 
Heaven,  before  he  go  hence,  and  be  no  more  seen !" 


m 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE  EASTEE-OFPEEINGS. 

|VES  DOBN  awoke  very  early  from  her  sound 
repose,  quite  free  from  her  cold,  and  perfectly 
rested  ;  but  Brendice,  whose  eyes  had  not  been 
closed  above  an  hour,  was  now  sleeping  quietly  and  pro 
foundly. 

Her  head  was  resting  upon  the  side  of  the  low  couch,  and 
one  arm  still  encircled  the  little  boy.  She  had  not  risen 
from  the  floor  since  kneeling  down  upon  it.  Sweet  sleep  had 
come  to  her,  while  the  words  of  prayer  were  on  her  lips. 

Ives  dressed  herself  noiselessly,  that  she  might  not  disturb 
the  sleepers ;  and  when  her  very  unstudied  toilet  was 
completed,  feeling  the  necessity  of  an  immediate  return  to 
The  Rocks,  she  searched  about  the  room  for  some  article  of 
clothing  to  protect  her  shoulders  from  the  cool,  fresh  morn 
ing  air. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  found  which  she  felt  at  liberty  to 
appropriate  to  her  use  but  a  fisherman's  old  coat,  which  was 
hanging  from  a  peg  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  apartment.  But 
that  would  serve  her  very  well. 


The  Easter -offer  ings.  281 

She  took  it  down,  and  was  thrusting  her  arms  into  the 
sleeves,  when  she  heard  the  rustling  of  a  paper  in  one  of  the 
pockets.  She  quickly  checked  the  movement,  fearful  of  dis 
turbing  Brendice  and  the  little  boy,  and  sought  very  cautious 
ly  to  remove  the  letter,  such  she  thought  it  was,  from  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  folded,  before  arraying  herself  in  the 
tattered  garment. 

A  letter  it  proved  to  be,  and  addressed  to  Brendice  Du 
Bois.  Ives  was  not  greatly  skilled  in  chirography,  but  she 
managed  to  read  the  name,  for  the  writing  was  as  legible  as 
it  was  elegant ;  and  it  was  so  beautiful  to  the  girl  that  she 
wished  the  paper  had  not  been  such  a  "  crunkly "  one — 
here  came  in  her  vernacular — so  she  might  open  it,  and  see 
if  the  contents  were  as  nice  as  the  exterior  looked.  She 
would  have  attached  no  consequence  to  the  breaking  of  the 
seal. 

Ives  would  have  learned  nothing,  however,  had  she  at 
tempted  to  gratify  her  curiosity,  for  the  writing  was  in  a 
language  of  which  she  understood  not  a  single  word. 

There  was  something,  however,  in  the  old  coat  pocket, 
besides  the  letter ;  and  that  she  could  examine  noiselessly, 
for  the  small,  solid  substance  was  wrapped  in  many  folds  of 
soft,  white  cotton. 

She  glanced  at  Brendice  and  the  child.  They  were  both 
still  soundly  sleeping,  and  then  she  unrolled  the  cotton  wind 
ings.  But  a  shade  of  disappointment  passed  over  her  face, 
for  there  was  nothing  before  her  eager  eyes  but  a  small, 
white,  shining  stone. 

Ives  thought,  contemptuously,  that  she  had  seen  "lots  o' 
just  sich  dimuns  "  many  a  time,  over  among  the  rocks.  It 


282  By  the  Sea. 

was  encircled — the  rest  of  the  setting  had  been  broken  away — 
by  a  narrow  band  of  gold,  on  which  was  a  monogram,  now 
partially  obliterated,  and  originally  so  fancifully  described, 
that  it  did  not  occur  to  the  girl  the  lines  were  anything  but 
accidental  cuttings. 

What  Ives  would  have  done  with  the  "  dimun,"  had  it  not 
been,  in  her  opinion,  so  utterly  valueless,  is  uncertain. 

Most  likely  she  would  have  taken  it  over  to  The  Kocks, 
and  after  a  sharp  conflict  with  herself,  either  would  have 
thrown  it  into  the  sea,  or  in  bringing  back  the  old  coat,  have 
brought  back,  too,  the  roll  of  cotton  in  the  pocket,  and  that 
small,  hard  substance  carefully  wrapped  within  it.  But 
as  it  was,  after  deliberating,  for  a  moment,  whether  she  had 
best  try  to  get  off  that  circlet  or  not — undoubtedly  the  band 
was  nothing  more  than  brass,  Ives  thought — she  dropped  it 
behind  the  couch,  which  was  drawn  away  a  short  distance 
from  the  wall,  upon  a  pile  of  little  Lang's  treasures — the 
pretty  tinted  pebbles  and  sea-shells  which  Brendice  found 
on  the  beach  for  him  ;  and  placing  the  letter  on  the  bed,  so 
near  the  edge,  however,  that,  unnoticed  by  her,  it,  too,  fell 
upon  the  floor,  she  finished  the  arraying  of  herself  in  the  old 
coat,  and  stepped  noiselessly  out  of  the  dwelling. 

A  few  minutes  later,  she  was  in  Brendice's  boat,  which  was 
skimming,  like  a  white-winged  sea-bird,  over  the  smooth 
water,  laughing  merrily  to  herself  as  she  thought  of  the  old 
fish-woman's  surprise,  when,  on  going  down  to  the  shore, 
she  would  find  this  nice  new  boat  in  the  place  of  her  old 
worn  one,  and  the  perfect  ignorance  which  she  would,  her 
self,  manifest  of  the  exchange  that  had  been  made.  And 
then  Ives  grew  very  sober. 


The  Easter-offerings.  283 

She  began  to  wonder  how  she  could  make  up  .to  Mother 
Hobart  the  loss  of  her  boat  and  get  back  this  one,  which 
she  was  determined  to  return  to  Brendice  Du  Bois,  whose 
home  the  girl  wished  was  over  at  The  Eocks,  as  she  had  told 
her  companion  a  dozen  times  the  night  previous,  while 
they  rowed  over  the  water. 

She  was  relieved  of  one  anxiety,  however,  as  she  drew  near 
the  landing.  A  fisherman  was  just  pushing  off  from  the 
Convoy, — it  was  William  Jones — and  at  her  request,  he  very 
willingly  promised  to  see  that  Brendice's  boat  was  safe  at 
The  Sands  before  night-fall. 

On  the  second  evening  after,  which  was  Saturday  night,  as 
Brendice  went  down  on  the  beach,  she  found,  to  her  regret, 
that  it  had  been  returned.  She  would  have  preferred  that 
Ives  should  keep  it,  as  she  had  often  thought  she  would 
never  dispose  of,  for  money,  the  last  thing  which  her  father 
had  purchased,  and  which  always  reminded  her,  so  forcibly, 
of  his  death  ;  though,  in  order  to  carry  into  execution  the 
plans  which  had  been  perfected  in  her  mind  while  she  was 
returning  on  Friday  morning  from  The  Rocks,  she  must  sell 
everything  else,  and  there  were  some  quite  valuable  articles 
in  the  sea-chest,  at  her  disposal. 

But  the  boat  she  could  never  offer  for  sale,  though  she  had 
decided  never  to  use  it  again.  Even  if  she  remained  at  The 
Sands,  she  could  never  resume  her  former  avocation  ;  her 
care  of  little  Lang  would  prevent  that. 

Her  woman-heart  would  never  allow  her  to  expose  a  child 
to  the  suffering  and  danger  she  had,  herself,  been  subjected 
to,  in  her  infancy.  But  she  would  not  remain  at  The  Sands. 

That  Saturday  night  was  to  be  the  last  of  her  week-day 


284  By  the  Sea. 

life  there,  she  thought,  and  she  had  gone  to  the  sea-shore  to 
listen,  for  the  last  time,  to  the  voices  which  always  seemed 
coming  up  to  her  out  of  the  water. 

She  wished  to  watch  once  more  for  the  advancing  and  re 
treating  of  the  waves,  and  the  quick  disappearance  of  her 
footprints  upon  the  sand,  on  whose  yielding  surface  she  had, 
many  times,  in  her  early  girlhood,  long  before  any  idea  of 
what  was  now  absorbing  her  thoughts  had  entered  into  her 
mind,  with  her  fingers  made  such  traceries,  that  it  saddened 
her  to  see  them  so  suddenly  obliterated.  She  would  walk 
once  more  over  the  ledge  whose  stones  had  been  trodden,  so 
often,  by  her  bare  feet,  and  recall  the  thoughts  which  had 
come  to  her  in  her  childhood  ;  and  climb  up  the  high  boul 
der,  on  which  so  many  hours  of  her  life  had  been  passed,  and 
look  away  over  the  water  as  she  had  so  constantly  for  years, 
then  with  the  expectation  that  her  mother  would  come,  some 
time,  to  the  earth  to  seek  her  child,  now  with  the  hope  that 
at  no  very  distant  period  she  would,  herself,  be  searching  for 
that  mother,  in  a  far-off,  better  land. 

The  lamps  were  lighted  at  the  Convoy,  while  she  stood 
there,  upon  the  beach. 

She  had  heard  nothing  in  relation  to  the  keeper  since  she 
was,  herself,  at  the  lighthouse  ;  for  no  one  had  been  into 
her  dwelling  since  Thursday,  besides  Mrs.  Adams'  little  girls. 
They  had  stepped  in,  for  a  moment,  on  Saturday  afternoon, 
to  bring  the  pretty  hat  and  shawl  for  Brendice,  and  the 
children's  present  for  the  little  boy,  which  was  so  nice,  and 
would  keep  him  so  warm,  when  he  rode  with  them,  to-mor 
row,  they  told  him,  up  to  the  church  ;  and  to  tell  Brendice 
that  their  elder  brother  had  taken  them  over  to  the  hills  that 


The  Easter -offer  ings.  285 

morning,  and  to  show  her  the  few  sweet  wild  flowers  they 
had  found  there,  and  especially  to  make  sure  that  she  and 
"  dear  little  Lang"  would  go  up  with  mother  and  themselves 
to  the  Easter  Festival. 

Sally  Jones,  at  whose  home  Brendice  had  just  called,  to 
return  some  completed  work,  hoping  to  hear  something 
about  Mr.  Maitland,  made  no  allusion  to  the  lighthouse 
keeper,  or  to  her  absent  nephew. 

When  she  turned  back  from  her  long  walk  up  the  beach, 
Brendice  paused  by  the  dwelling  which  had  been  Mrs.  Mait- 
land's,  the  doors  of  which  had  not  been  opened,  she  supposed, 
since  she  had,  herself,  closed  them;  though  she  had,  soon 
after  returning  to  her  own  home,  the  previous  autumn,  given 
the  keys  to  Mr.  Brown,  with  a  remark  which  convinced  him 
that  she  was  doing  well  in  not  making  the  house  her  home, 
as  he  had  advised  her  to  do.  As  she  looked  up  to  the 
white-curtained  windows,  the  thought  struck  her  that  there 
was  a  faint  light  within  the  dwelling  ;  but  when  she  drew 
nearer,  she  was  satisfied  that  what  had  caught  her  eye  was 
nothing  but  the  moonbeams  reflected  by  the  glass. 

The  second  night  from  this,  her  own  home  would  be  for 
saken  too.  It  was  a  rather  saddening  thought  to  her  ;  but 
she  felt  that  for  her  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  that  of  the  child, 
from  the  sweet  burden  of  which  she  prayed  never  to  be  re 
leased,  henceforth  her  life  must  be  a  very  different  one  from 
what  it  had  ever  been  before  ;  strengthening  herself  with 
the  thought : 

"  I  shall  not  fail,  who  all  my  trust 
Repose  on  Thee,  my  God  !" 


286  By  the  Sea. 

"  Christ  our  Passover  is  sacrificed  for  us  ;  therefore  let  us 
keep  the  Feast !" 

The  words  came  to  her  at  the  early  dawn  ;  and  all  through 
the  hours  of  that  bright,  sweet,  Easter  morning,  her  lips 
were  uttering  the  glad  chant  ;  and  as  she  read  the  beautiful 
Service  for  the  most  holy-day,  her  heart,  many  times,  re 
peated  the  prayer  that  the  dark  shroud  which  had  held  her 
so  long  in  its  folds  might  never  again  enwrap  her  ;  that  the 
sun  of  a  resurrection  morning  might,  indeed,  have  arisen 
for  her. 

An  hour  or  two  before  noon,  Mrs.  Adams'  daughters, 
dressed  for  church,  came  down  for  her  and  the  child. 

Lang  had  been  enjoying  himself  finely,  all  the  morning. 
He  was  a  very  sweet-tempered  little  boy. 

Brendice,  in  her  long  walk  the  previous  evening,  thinking 
it  would  be  the  last  time  she  might  ever  do  so,  had  picked 
up  a  large  handful  of  shells  for  him,  and  he  was  very  happy 
with  this  great  addition  to  his  treasures  ;  and  when  the 
girls,  with  whom  he  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  acquainted, 
came  in,  he  was  very  eager  to  display  it  to  them. 

The  children,  of  course,  expressed  great  wonder  and  de 
light,  and  then  the  eldest,  after  a  moment's  sudden  silence, 
exclaimed,  in  unaffected  surprise  : 

"  Why,  Brendice,  what  is  this !     Where  did  you  get  it  ?" 
\     Brendice,   busying  herself  in  the   other  apartment,  only 
glanced  carelessly  towards  the  half-open  door. 

"Nothing  but  a  pebble,  Ruth  I     I  found  it  on  the  beach." 

"  Did  you  ?  Why  " — the  girl  spoke  slowly, — "  it  looks  very 
nice ;  handsomer,  a  great  deal,  I  think,  than  mother's  opal, 


The  Easter -offer  ings.  287 

•which  uncle  sent  her  from  France !  and  I  wonder  how  this 
happened  to  be  on  it." 

She  did  not  say  what,  or  Brendice  might  have  taken  a 
nearer  view  of  that,  which  not  her  own  hand,  but  the  hand 
of  Ives  Dorn  had  dropped  among  the  little  boy's  playthings. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  let  Lang  carry  this  to  church,  for 
an  Easter-offering !"  continued  the  girL 

"It  is  valueless,  Ruth!"  Brendice  replied. 

"  But  it  is  so  beautiful !"  the  child  persisted. 

"  It  looks  so  pure  and  so  rich !  Mother  says  that  if  we 
give  the  best  we  have  to  God,  He  will  count  it  above  all 
price,  whatever  it  may  be.  And  she  says,  too,  that  very  often 
we  don't  know  how  valuable  a  thing  is  ;  and  that  there  were 
many  people  who  did  not  think  much  of  it,  even  when  God 
gave  to  the  world  what  was  worth  more  than  the  whole 
universe,  on  Easter  morning — The  Risen  Christ  I 

"  Please  let  Lang  take  it,  Brendice,  for  an  offering !" 

"  He  may,  dear  Buthy !"  Brendice  said,  the  tears  coming 
into  her  eyes.  "  He  should  take  it,  if  it  were  even  a  diamond, 
and  at  my  disposal." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad !"  the  child  replied,  and  she  went  be 
hind  the  couch,  to  pick  up  the  paper,  a  corner  of  which  was 
visible  beneath  the  bed  covering,  with  the  intention  of  wrap 
ping  the  "pebble"  within  it,  before  consigning  it  to  the 
little  boy's  pocket. 

The  paper  proved  to  be  a  letter,  however,  and  she 
dropped  it  upon  the  bed  ;  and,  not  to  trouble  Brendice,  who 
was  busied  in  preparing  for  her  ride,  put  the  treasure  into 
the  little  coat  pocket,  and  placed  her  own  handkerchief  above 
it,  to  keep  it  safe.  And  then,  stooping  down,  and  taking  the 


288  By  the  Sea. 

round  rosy  face  in  her  hands,  and  looking  into  the  dark  eyes, 
sparkling  with  delight,  she  said  : 

"  Now,  you  little  mouse,  you  must  remember  every  word  I 
say !  "When  we  are  in  the  church, — that  is  the  great  nice 
house  where  we  are  going  " — 

"  Yes,  Brendice  told  me !"  he  interrupted. 

"  I  shall  take  hold  of  your  little  hand,  and  lead  you  up  to 
the  chancel,  where  a  tall  man  stands  " — 

"  In  his  white  gown — Brendice  told  me !" 

"  And  just  as  soon  as  you  see  me  put  something  into  his 
hand,  you  must  take  this  out  of  your  pocket,  and  give  it  to 
him.  Now  remember !" 

"  May  I,  Brendice  ?"  asked  the  child. 

"Yes,  dear!"  Brendice  said.    "Ruthy  desires  it  so  much." 

"  No  one  will  mind  it,  in  such  a  little  creature  as  you  are !" 
she  mentally  added  ;  and  she  wished  that  the  stone  was 
really  as  beautiful  and  rich  as  the  little  girl's  fancy  had  made 
it,  and  that  it  was  in  her  power  to  present  an  Easter-offering, 
herself,  that  day,  to  the  Lord ;  but  then,  she  thought,  she 
had  a  willing  mind,  and  as  Ruth  had  said,  if  we  offer  to  the 
Lord  the  best  that  it  is  in  our  power  to  give,  it  will  be  accept 
able  to  Him,  whatever  the  offering  may  be. 

As  they  were  riding  over  the  smooth,  hard  road,  somewhat 
umisually  so,  at  that  season  of  the  year,  Mrs.  Adams  remarked 
on  the  beauty  of  the  day,  and  expressed  to  Brendice  the 
great  sorrow  she  felt  that  the  old  gentleman,  lately  an  inmate 
of  her  house,  would  not  be  able  better  to  enjoy  it,  especially 
as  so  many  of  the  children,  who  had  been  made  happy  by  him 
on  Christmas  Eve,  were  going  up,  as  he  had  requested  them, 
to  the  Easter  festival. 


Tke  Easter-offerings.  289 

"Was  he  ill?"  Brendice  asked,  faintly. 

For  some  reason,  though  she  should  always  feel  very  grate 
ful  to  him  for  the  assistance  he  had  so  kindly  and  delicately 
rendered  her,  during  the  past  winter,  and  though  her  fears 
that  he  would  try  to  take  the  little  boy  from  her  had  been 
almost  entirely  removed,  she  did  not  like  to  hear  his  name 
mentioned,  and  she  was  afraid  that  Mrs.  Adams  would 
observe  the  emotion  which  she  fancied  that  she  manifested. 

No,  he  was  not  ill,  the  lady  said,  but  he  had  met  with 
another  great  trouble.  She  did  not,  herself,  understand 
fully  what  it  was.  Somebody  had  sent  down  to  Mr.  Adams, 
the  day  before,  to  see  that  Jerry  Greyson  went  over  to  the 
lighthouse,  and  remained  there  until  a  new  keeper  was 
appointed,  as  something  had  happened  at  the  Convoy.  Mr. 
Hall  sent  a  boat  to  the  island,  Saturday  morning,  to  fetch  his 
friend,  Mr.  Aden,  to  the  mainland,  to  pass  Easter  week  with 
him.  His  messenger  brought  back  word  that  only  the  keeper's 
deputy,  who  proved  to  be  a  brother,  or  some  near  relative  of 
Mr.  Aden,  the  lady  had  been  informed,  was  there,  and  he  was 
ill,  very  dangerously  so  ;  but  so  uncomfortably  situated,  that 
an  endeavor  was  to  have  been  made,  the  .afternoon  previous, 
to  remove  him  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Hall. 

"  Why  to  Mr.  Hall's  ?"  Brendice  asked. 

Mrs.  A.dams  did  not  know,  unless  the  man  proved  to  be 
that  brother  of  Mr.  Aden,  long  supposed  to  be  dead,  of  whom 
the  old  gentleman  had  once  spoken  to  her,  as  having  been  a 
very  fine,  promising  young  man.  Mr.  Hall  had  formerly 
known  him  very  well,  and  had  been  greatly  attached  to  him  ; 
but  it  had  been  so  long  since  he  had  been  heard  from,  his 
friend  had  believed  that  he  could  no  longer  be  living. 

13 


290  By  the  Sea. 

Was  the  present  illness  of  this  man  what  was  troubling  Mr 
Hall  so  much  ?  Brendice  inquired. 

Yes,  that,  and  the  absence  of  Mr.  Aden. 

"  And  he  has  had  so  much  trouble !"  Mrs.  Adams  said. 
"  You  have  heard  about  Rachel  Ross  ?" 

Brendice's  heart  gave  a  great  throb,  for  as  the  lady  uttered 
the  name,  in  a  rather  emphatic  tone,  little  Lang,  who  was 
whispering  softly  and  laughingly  to  "kitty" — that  was  Euth's 
white  muff — turned  a  surprised  and  thoughtful  face  towards 
her,  and  opened  his  lips  to  say  something,  only  the  lady  pro 
ceeded  : 

"  Rachel's  mother,  who  was  a  very  sweet  girl,  I  have  heard, 
was  to  have  been  the  wife  of  Mr.  Hall ;  but  his  friends  inter 
fered  with  his  plans,  and  sent  him  to  a  foreign  country  ;  (he 
did  not  forgive  them  for  it,  for  many  long  years,)  and  the 
match  was  broken  off. 

"The  girl  married,  but  very  indiscreetly,  and  she  died 
young,  she,  and  quite  a  number  of  little  children,  all  but  one, 
the  youngest,  Rachel,  who  was  named  for  her  mother. 
Mr.  Hall  found  this  child,  accidentally,  as,  homeless  and 
friendless,  she  was  wandering  in  the  streets  of  a  southern 
city.  He  took  her  to  his  home  and  bis  heart  ;  but  the  news 
of  her  mother's  fate — he  had  not  heard  of  her  marriage,  even, 
until  a  few  weeks  before  he  had  found  her  child,  and  all 
through  those  years,  he  had  been  looking  forward  to  the  time 
when  she  should  become  his  wife, — the  news  of  her  mother's 
fate  so  affected  him,  that  he  was  not  his  own  self  for  years. 

"  He  seemed  to  live  only,  I  have  been  told,  in  the  life  of 
the  young  girl.  And  at  length  she  left  him. 

"It  is  now  more  than  fifteen  years — it  is  almost  sixteen 


The  Easter-offerings.  291 

years  since  she  went  away  ;  the  same  period  of  time  that  has 
elapsed  since  Mr.  Aden" — 

"  Why,  that  is  certainly  very  strange  ;"  she  interrupted 
herself  to  remark.  "  People  have  told  me  that  Mr.  Aden  was 
very  fond  of  this  girl ;  and  I  was  formerly  acquainted  with 
her  cousin,  Singleton,  whom,  it  is  said,  she  married. 

"  It  always  surprised  me  that  Edgar  Singleton  should  per 
suade  a  girl  to  marry  him  in  a  clandestine  manner;  and  I  do 
not  believe  now,  that  he  did!"  she  added,  earnestly.  "I 
should  not  wonder  if  it  was  Mr.  Aden  who  became  her 
husband  ;  and  that  this  man,  whoever  he  may  be,  has  been 
at  the  lighthouse,  all  these  years  since. 

"  Mr.  Hall  was  so  deeply  wounded  by  the  elopement  of 
this  girl,"  continued  Mrs.  Adams,  "  that  he  made  no  effort  to 
discover  what  became  of  her.  His  feelings  towards  her, 
however,  were  just  beginning  to  undergo  a  change;  and  then 
the  news  of  her  supposed  death  reached  him.  But  she  may 
be  living  1 

"  He  has  earnestly  requested  me  to  stop  at  his  house  to 
night,  and  I  intend  to  do  so,  since  he  is  in  such  trouble  ;  and 
he  particularly  wishes  that  you  and  little  Lang  should 
remain  there  with  me,  till  to-morrow. 

"I  will  tell  him  what  an  idea  has  occurred  to  me,  and  if 
this  man,  who,  it  is  said,  is  almost  speechless,  and  has  his 
reason  only  at  brief  intervals,  can  be  restored  to  conscious 
ness,  perhaps  the  old  gentleman  will  be  able  to  ascertain  " — 

"Why,  you  are  faint,  Brendico  !     Let  me  " — 

"I  am  so  unaccustomed  to  the  motion  of  a  carriage!" 
Brendice  managed  to  say,  with  tolerable  composure,  when 
the  window  was  partially  opened,  and  she  could  avert  her 


292  By  the  Sea. 

face  from  her  companion's  inquiring  eyes,  under  the  pretext 
of  seeking  the  cool,  fresh  air. 

But  a  few  more  words  were  spoken,  before  they  reached 
the  church.  Mrs.  Adams  was  reflecting  on  the  plausibility 
of  the  idea  which  had  suddenly  occurred  to  her. 

The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  convinced  "she  was 
that  her  conjecture  was  well  founded  ;  and  it  would  be  very 
gratifying  to  her  kind  feelings,  should  it  prove  to  be  so.  If 
Mr.  Hall's  adopted  daughter,  she  reasoned,  had  been  the 
wife  of  Captain  Singleton,  she  was  dead;  for  it  had  been  the 
ship  of  that  unfortunate  man  which  had  struck  on  the  sand 
bar  the  preceding  summer,  and  his  wife  and  her  child,  as 
well  as  most  of  the  ship's  crew,  had  been  drowned. 

If  Rachel  Ross  had  been  married  to  the  man  that 
nominally  held  the  post  of  lighthouse  keeper,  she  might 
still  be  living  ;  and  the  old  gentleman  who  loved  her  so 
much,  though  he  was  so  unfitted  to  be  her  guardian,  might 
yet  be  gladdened  by  a  reconciliation  with  her  ;  for  Mr. 
Aden's  whereabouts,  at  least,  would  be  likely  to  become 
known,  now  that  this  accident,  or  whatever  it  was,  had 
happened  to  his  relative  and  deputy. 

As  for  Brendice,  she  might  not  have  been  able,  herself,  to 
tell  what  was  passing  through  her  mind,  except  that  this 
little  creature — who,  as  be  had  looked  up  into  the  face,  to  the 
expression  of  which  he  always  seemed  striving  to  suit  his 
mood,  crept  out  from  the  encircling  arms  of  the  girls,  and 
nestled  closely  to  her  side,  and  turned  his  loving,  pitiful 
eyes  up  to  her — this  little  creit'-ire  should  never  be  taken 
from  her  while  she  was  able  prop3rly  to  care  for  him, 
unless  his  father  or  his  mother  claimed  him. 


The  Easter -offer  ings.  293 

She  was  thinking  only  this,  and  wishing  she  had  not  come 
up  to  the  Festival,  but  had  taken  the  child,  and  without  a 
word  to  any  one,  had  gone  away  from  her  old  home  forever, 
early  the  next  morning  after  her  work  at  the  island  was 
done. 

And  when  she  knelt  in  church,  it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  done  so,  and  tried  to  put  away  the  bitter  thoughts 
which  were  so  nearly  overwhelming  her,  and  to  order  her 
prayers  in  accordance  with  the  Morning  Lesson  she  had 
read  with  so  much  interest : 

"  Not  with  the  old  leaven,  neither  with  the  leaven  of  malice 
and  wickedness  " — 

Her  heart  had  responded  : 

"I  had  put  it — the  old  leaven — out  of  my  house,  for  ever 
more,  before  the  Pasch  was  slain!" 

Yet  when  she  thought  on  : 

"  But  with  the  unleavened  bread  of  sincerity  and  truth !" — 
she  could  only  answer  : 

"No  one  shall  ever  extract  from  me  the  secret  in  relation 
to  this  child :  neither  his  name,  nor  how  I  obtained 
possession  of  him!" 

"  Set  your  affections  on  things  above;  not  on  things  on  the 
earth !" 

And  her  firm  lips  framed  the  words  : 

"  Have  I  not  already  cut  off  my  right  hand,  and  plucked 
out  my  right  eye?  Must  I  rend  out  my  heart  too  ?" 

And  when  she  rose  from  her  unblest  prayer,  and  Mrs. 
Adams  put  into  her  hand  the  book  from  which  the  children 
were  singing  their  glad  Easter-songs,  with  the  pencilled 
words  : 


294'  -By  the  Sea, 

"  Sing,  dear  Brendice !  Mr.  Hall  bade  me  ask  you  to,  at 
the  Festival.  It  will  make  him  very  happy  to  hear  your 
voice.  He  was  looking  very  sad  and  thoughtful  when  we 
came  into  church,  but  a  sweet,  satisfied  smile  came  to  his 
pale  face,  when  he  saw  you  and  the  little  boy !" 

Brendice  thought,  if  she  opened  her  lips  at  all,  it  would 
only  be  in  self-upbraiding  that  she  had  not  earlier  discovered 
how  dear  he  was  to  her,  and  had  not  more  carefully  guarded 
her  treasure  ;  and  especially  that  she  had  placed  it,  a  second 
time,  before  the  eyes  of  that  old  man. 

Let  her  once  get  beyond  the  reach  of  those  eyes,  she 
thought,  which,  were  now,  when  the  children  were  presenting 
theii;  simple  offerings  at  the  altar,  so  closely  following  the 
figure  of  little  Lang,  who,  carrying  the  beautiful  bouquet,  so 
heavy  that  the  little  fat  hand  could  hardly  manage  to  hold 
it  upright,  was  led  towards  the  chancel  by  Ruth  Adams — 
let  her  but  once  get  beyond  the  reach  of  those  covetous  eyes, 
and — 

The  flowers  were  placed  upon  the  altar,  and  Ruth  had 
presented  the  offering  of  the  Sabbath-school  class  of  which 
she  was  a  member,  and  then  little  Lang,  remembering  what 
had  been  told  him,  drew  forth  the  beautiful  "pebble  "  from 
his  little  pocket,  and  held  it  up  to  the  rector. 

The  gentleman  took  it  with  a  look  of  such  marked  surprise, 
that  many  in  the  church  observed  it,  and  he  bent  his  head, 
and  inquired  softly  of  the  girl : 

"Whose  child  is  this  little  boy?" 

Ruth  was  so  much  embarrassed,  that  she  did  not  know 
•what  reply  to  make.  She  had  noticed  his  surprise,  and  was 


The  Easter-offerings.  296 

afraid  that  something  was  not  quite  right ;  and  to  encourage 
her  to  speak,  he  put  the  question  in  another  form  : 

""What  is  this  child's  name?" 

But  Ruth  still  hesitated.  She  did  not  know  whether  she 
ought  to  call  him  Lang,  or  whether  she  had  best  try  to  speak 
that  French  word  which  Brendice  pronounced  so  queerly. 

The  little  boy,  who  appeared  to  be  very  glad  that  his  part 
of  the  performance  was  ended,  turned  his  bright,  dark  eyes 
from  the  troubled  countenance  of  Euth  to  that  of  the  rector. 

He  had  heard  both  questions,  and  was  wondering  why 
they  were  not  replied  to ;  and  then  he  suddenly  looked 
around,  and  down  the  aisle,  and  over  the  sea  of  faces,  till  his 
eyes  rested  on  that,  to  him,  sure  haven — the  face  of  Brendice. 

There  was  a  look  of  eager  inquiry  on  his  face,  but  he 
seemed  quickly  to  have  found  an  answer  to  his  question,  for 
he  immediately  turned  his  head,  and  glanced  up  again  to  the 
rector,  and  the  sweet  young  voice  rang  through  the  spacious 
church : 

"Boss  Aden !— Brendice  Du  Bois'  little  boy!" 

There  was  a  quick  movement,  as  these  words  were  uttered, 
somewhere,  far  back  in  the  church,  and  a  lady  who  had  been 
kneeling,  ever  since  she  entered  the  edifice,  half  rose  from 
her  seat. 

After  a  moment,  the  lady — she  was  a  stranger,  and  had 
been  shown  into  the  pew  where  sat  Mrs.  Smith,  the  house 
keeper  of  Mr.  Hall, — whispered  softly,  but  in  a  startled  tone, 
to  the  woman  beside  her  : 

"  If  you  please,  what  was  the  name  ?" 

"  Boss  Aden  I — I  thought ;"  was  the  reply. 

"  No,  no ! — the  other  name  ?" 


296  By  the  Sea. 

"Brendice  Du  Bois!"  and  Mrs.  Smith,  who  never  suffered 
an  opportunity  for  speaking  a  good  word  for  a  fellow-being 
to  pass  unimproved  by  her,  put  her  book  over  her  mouth 
and  continued : 

"  The  girl  is  a  poor  young  fish-woman.  She  found  that 
child,  last  autumn,  down  on  the  sea-shore,  I  have  heard. 
The  town  authorities  were  intending  to  send  him  to  the 
almshouse,  but  she  carried  him  to  her  own  home,  and  has 
fed  and  clothed  him,  herself,  all  through  the  past  severe 
winter,  by  the  avails  of  her  daily  labor,  which  has  been,  in 
great  part,  digging  clams,  down  on  the  cold  beach." 

"  Is  the  girl  in  church  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

Mrs.  Smith  glanced  about  her.  She  had  observed  the  tall, 
handsome  young  woman  who  had  come  in  with  Mrs.  Adams, 
but  she  could  not  have  thought  that  was  Brendice,  the  fish- 
girl,  and  she  replied  in  the  negative. 

How  the  services  of  the  occasion  proceeded,  after  Euth 
Adams  and  the  little  boy  moved  away  from  the  chancel, 
Brendice  could  not  have  told,  though  she  was  listening,  in  a 
dull  way,  to  the  voices  which  were  speaking,  and  thinking 
dreamily. 

Now  she  heard  one  voice,  alone.  A  kind,  pleasant,  fatherly 
voice  it  was. 

The  rector  referred  to  the  offerings  which  the  children  had 
just  made,  telling  their  worth  in  the  currency  of  men ;  and 
hoped,  that,  in  the  standard  of  Heaven,  which  weighs  what 
the  heart  hides  away  in  its  secret  recesses,  as  well  as  what  is 
displayed  in  the  unclosed  hand,  these  bits  of  silver  and  gold, 
( >r  their  equivalent,  enriched  by  humble,  trusting  prayers,  by 
little  sacrifices,  by  love  to  God  and  good-will  to  men,  might 


The  Easter-offerings.  297 

prove  treasures  of  untold  worth  ;  and  that  these  gifts  at  the 
altar  might  be  returned  to  them,  in  their  hour  of  greatest 
need,  by  Him  who  holds  all  things  in  His  hand, — and  who 
can  bless  one  without  injury  to  another, — a  hundred-fold  in 
this  life,  and  in  the  life  to  come  he  hoped  they  might  receive 
the  reward  promised  to  him,  even,  who  has  given  a  cup  of 
cold  water  in  the  name  of  a  disciple. 

And  then  he  ascribed  all  glory  and  honor  to  Him  who  has 
made  that  great  and  blessed  promise,  and  the  whole  assembly, 
Brendice  alone  excepted,  stood  up  and  said — Amen  ! 

She  understood  something  of  this,  and  a  faint,  strange 
smile  passed  over  her  white  face. 

Her  offerings  had  not  always  been  made  with  prayer  and 
good-will  to  men, — perhaps  never,  with  true  love  to  God  ; 
but  had  they  not  been  sacrifices  such  as  few  people  are  ever 
required  to  make  ? 

And  now  the  hundred-fold  was  coming  to  her ! 

After  thab,  many  voices  were  joined  in  grand  chorus. 

They  were  singing  something  about  "  merry  Easter-bells," 
and  Brendice  remembered  how  many  times  through  the  long 
years  gone  by,  as,  wandering  alone,  up  and  down  the  smooth, 
white  sand,  and  listening  to  the  sounding  sea,  on  the  holy 
Sabbath,  bright  and  sweet  as  this  fair  Easter-day,  she  had 
tried  to  catch  the  peals  of  St.  Mary's  bell.  She  had  often 
thought  how,  if  she  could  once  find  herself  within  the  church 
which  her  vivid  imagination  never  pictured  to  her  as  more 
beautiful  than  this  fine  edifice  proved  to  be,  all  the  hard, 
bitter  feelings  which  were  so  poisoning  and  deadening  her 
young  life,  would  forever  pass  away. 

"  What  chant  the  merry  Easter-bells  ?" 
13* 


298  By  the  Sea. 

The  children  were  repeating  the  words,  and  now  another 
voice  joined  in  the  chorus, — not  commingling  with  the  other 
voices, — only  sweetly  harmonizing  with  them  ;  and  reaching 
the  ear  separate  and  distinct  in  its  richness  and  beauty,  as 
the  light  of  the  bright  evening  star  falls  upon  the  eye,  un 
blended  with  another  ray. 

A  firm,  mature  voice,  it  was ;  but  one  of  wonderful 
sweetness  and  depth,  and  perfectly  trained  ;  and  no  one  who 
heard  those  words,  somewhat  peculiarly  pronounced,  but 
articulated  with  surpassing  clearness  : 

"  That  Christ,  our  Lord,  is  risen  again  !" 

would  be  likely  ever  to  forget  the  music  or  the  occasion. 

The  closing  word  in  the  stanza  was  especially  remembered. 
The  unknown  singer  lingered  as  long  upon  it  as  the  deep 
tones  of  the  organ  were  reverberating  through  the  church, 
the  voice  rising  higher  and  higher,  bearing  up  with  it  the 
hearts  of  the  listeners,  and  ever  more  and  more  sweet,  till  it 
seemed  ready  to  enter  the  orchestra  above. 

Brendice  heard  the  singer.  Was  it  her  own  voice  to  which 
she  listened.  No !  it  was  very  many  times  sweeter  than  her 
own  could  be,  she  thought,  though  strangely  like  what  her 
own  might  have  been,  if — 

Her  perceptions  all  returned  to  her  now  ;  and  her  eye 
glanced  down — down,  over  the  wide,  arid  deserts  of  the  past, 
through  the  briny,  bitter  waters  of  the  present,  and  away  up 
the  vista  of  the  future — long  indeed  it  seemed  to  be — but  a 
brightness  came  down  from  the  distance,  lighting  up  nil  the 
way,  and  revealing  a  path  which  should  be  smoother  and 
smoother  for  the  determined  tread,  and  ever  more  and  more 
radiant,  for  it  led  up  to  the  Throne  of  God  ! 


The  Easter -offer  ings.  299 

The  whole  prospect  stretched  itself  out  before  her  mental 
•vision,  and  the  words  which  Mrs.  Maitland  had  repeated  to 
her,  came  to  her  thoughts,  as  if  they  were  whispered  now, 
for  the  first  time,  in  her  ear  : 

"  What  thou  knowest  not  now,  thou  shalt  know  hereafter !" 

Three  nights  since,  she  had  hoped  that  the  waters  of. 
'Jordan,  which  were  flowing  over  her,  would  wash  away  all 
the  leprosy  ;  but  now  she  saw  that  she  had  been  bowing  in 
the  house  of  Bimmon,  not  daring  to  ask  in  words — "  Pardon 
Thy  servant  in  this  thing !"  for  she  knew  that  "  the  Lord 
our  God  is  a  jealous  God." 

She  had  only  whispered  softly  to  her  own  heart : 

"  Is  it  not  a  little  one  ?" 

But  now,  looking  up  and  down  that  pathway,  Brendice's 
firm  lips,  as  she  knelt  with  the  congregation  in  prayer, 
murmured  the  words,  very  humbly  :  *  ^ 

"  Master,  I  will  follow  Thee,  whithersoever  Thou  goest !" 

And  then  the  kind,  paternal  voice  of  the  rector  was 
saying  :  "  The  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all  understand 
ing, — and  the  blessing  of  God  Almighty," — 

A  few  moments  after  the  Amen  was  uttered,  very  softly, 
but  very  fervently.  Brendice  lifted  her  head,  and  drew  the 
child  near  her.  The  congregation  were  retiring.  The 
greater  part  had  already  left  the  church. 

She  called  him  "  little  Boss,"  now,  and  whispered  to  him 
lovingly,  but  calmly  and  very  firmly. 

But  the  boy  answered  in  tearful,  pleading  accents,  reaching 
up  his  arms  and  putting  them  about  her  neck  : 

"No,  no,  Brendice !  Nobody's  little  boy  but  Brendice's  I" 
he  said. 


300  By  the  Sea. 

The  girl  unwound  the  clinging  arms,  and  held  the  little 
soft  hands  in  her  own,  and  smiled  upon  him  in  such  a  way 
that  the  pain  passed  slowly  from  the  sweet  face,  though  it 
was  still  greatly  sobered  ;  and  then  she  led  him  out  of  the 
pew,  and  up  to  Mr.  Hall,  who,  with  Mrs.  Adams,  was  stand 
ing  a  little  apart. 

The  people  had  all  retired  now,  with  the  exception  of  two 
or  three  gentlemen  who  had  followed  the  rector  into  the 
robing  room,  and  the  strange  lady,  who  had  not  yet  risen 
from  her  devotions. 

The  old  man  was  gazing  on  Brendice  and  the  child,  with 
eager,  anxious  eyes. 

She  did  not  observe  his  hurried,  tremulous  greeting,  but 
speaking  quickly  and  determinedly,  she  said  : 

"Here  is  my  Easter-offering,  sir!  To  your  keeping  I 
entrust  it !"  « 

And  she  placed  the  child's  hand  in  that  of  the  old  gentle 
man,  and  turned  immediately  away  ;  but  he  laid  his  fingers 
on  her  arm  and  detained  her. 

"And  you,  Brendice!"  he  said,  "what  are  you  thinking 
of  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do,  my  dear  child  ?  You  will 
certainly  consent" — 

She  interrupted  him. 

"I  am  thinking  of  what  you  said  to  me  on  Christmas 
Eve,  sir!  and  I  am  going  to  unearth  my  talents,  that  the 
Lord  may  have  His  own,  with  the  usury  He  requires, 
when  He  calls  for  it!" 

The  look  and  the  tone  with  which  she  spoke  silenced 
the  old  man,  and  he  let  go  his  hold  on  her  sleeve.  But 
Mrs.  Adams  followed  her,  putting  her  hand  within  Bren- 


The  Easter-offerings.  301 

dice's  arm,  as  she  walked  quickly  out  of  the  church,  and 
leading  her  to  the  carriage  which  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

When  Brendice  was  seated  within  it,  she  placed  herself 
beside  her,  whispering  to  Euth  to  jump  out  of  the  vehicle  and 
climb  up  into  Mr.  Hall's  carriage, — into  which  little  Ross  was 
at  that  moment  lifted, — and  go  home  with  tho  family,  and 
make  the  child  happy,  and  be  otherwise  useful  to  the  old 
gentleman,  till  she  was  sent  for  to  return  to  her  own 
home. 

The  ride  back  to  The  Sands  was  a  silent  one,  though 
Mrs.  Adams,  who  had  believed,  for  some  time  past,  that 
the  poor,  wounded  heart  beside  her  was  hiding  a  secret 
it  was  sensible  it  ought  to  ^reveal,  was  very  glad,  and  very 
sorry,  too,  for  Brendice  ;  sorry  for  the  present  suffering, 
and  glad  for  the  happiness  in  store  for  her.  "When  the  girl 
was  leading  the  little  boy,  which  all  through  the  winter  Mr. 
Hall  felt  very  sure  was  the  child  of  his  foster-daughter, 
towards  the  old  gentleman,  he  had  whispered  to  Mrs. 
Adams  that  Brendice,  except  at  her  own  wish,  should  never 
be  separated  from  the  child  whom  she  loved  and  had  cared 
for  so  tenderly. 

Henceforth  she  should  be  to  him  all  that  Eachel  Eoss 
had  been. 

But  she  would  not  repeat  his  words  to  her  to-night. 

She  only  said,  as  she  took  Brendice's  hand,  when  she 
reached  her  home,  "Come  to  me  in  the  morning,  dear.  I 
have  something  very  pleasant  to  tell  you — something  that 
will  give  you  great  happiness !" 

She  was  a  little  sorry,  however,  after  Brendice  turned  and 


302 


By  the  Sea. 


walked  away  over  the  ledge  towards  her  own  home,  that  she 
did  not  tell  her  then  what  Mr.  Hall  had  said  ;  the  girl  had 
replied  to  her,  in  such  a  strangely  calm  tone  : 

"  I  will  come  some  time,  dear  madam,  and  thank  you  for 
all  the  kindness  you  have  showed  me." 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


UNDER    THE    EVEKGEEENS. 

]  WILIGHT  was  fading  when  Brendice  reached  her 
home,  and  without  laying  aside  her  hat  and 
shawl,  for  the  evening  was  cool,  she  sat  down  by 
her  little  window  and  looked  up  to  the  deepening  blue, 
where  here  and  there  came  out  a  glimpse  of  the  pathway 

through  the  skies  : 

"The  road 
Which  lies  open  to  the — abode  " 

of  our  God !  And  she  thought  of  the  "  Ladder  set  up  on 
the  earth,  and  the  top  of  it  reached  to  heaven.  And,  behold, 
the  Lord  stood  above  it!" 

At  its  foot  lay  the  weary  wanderer  on  whom  the  sun  had 
set,  and  the  stones  were  his  pillow. 

The  steps  of  the  wonderful  Ladder  which  led  up  to  God 
had  been  made  all  glorious  by  the  footprints  of  angels,  but 
each  link  in  that  chain  of  steps  let  down  before  her,  had 
been  of  burning,  sharpened  iron,  which  had  scorched  the 
foot,  and  pierced  the  soul. 

But  safely  passed  now,  Brendice  was  whispering  to  herself, 

with  thickly-gathering,  but  grateful  tears  : 

(303) 


304  By  the  Sea. 

"  The  Lord  stood  above  it !  and  every  step  is  safely  passed 
now.  There  surely  will  never  be  another  round  for  me  to 
cross !" 

The  moonbeams  canie  at  length  through  the  window. 
They  fell  upon  the  pillow,  where  at  that  hour,  a  little  curly 
head  had  been  wont  to  be  laid  at  rest.  Brendice  was  look 
ing  now  at  the  couch. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  something  which  had  the  appearance  of  a 
folded  white  paper,  and  when  with  trembling  fingers  she  had 
lighted  her  lamp,  for  as  she  observed  it  closely  in  the  bright 
moonlight^  she  saw  that  it  was  a  letter,  a  sheet  folded  and 
sealed,  with  her  name  upon  it,  in  the  handwriting  of  her 
father, — pale,  almost  fainting,  she  sat  down  to  examine  what 
should  have  been  discovered  much  earlier  than  this. 

The  letter  should  have  been  found  on  the  morning  after 
her  father's  supposed  death. 

It  was  the  folded  paper  which  had  rustled  down  on  the 
floor  at  her  feet,  on  the  night  when  she  was  first  preparing 
the  couch  for  little  Ross,  and  thrust  by  her  into  the  pocket 
of  the  old  sea-coat.  It  was  what  Ives  Dorn  had  removed 
thence,  and  what  Ruth  Adams  had  that  morning  picked  up 
and  laid  upon  the  bed. 

When  the  sheet  was  unfolded,  and  Brendice  saw  that  the 
date  of  the  writing  was  the  same  night,  only  two  hours  after 
her  father's  boat  was  beaten  by  the  waves  against  the  ledge 
and  hauled  up  by  the  fishermen  over  the  rocks,  and  that  the 
opening  words  were  :  "My  dear  child!"  she  could  read  no 
more  until  a  swift  prayer  had  gone  up  to  Heaven,  a  prayer  of 
deepest  thankfulness  that  the  night  was  passed  and  the  dawn 
ing  of  a  day  of  gladness  had  come  for  her,  at  last. 


Under  the  Evergreens.  3o5 

Her  father  was  living,  and  lie  loved  her  ;  and  Luke  Mait- 
land  was  not  a  murderer  ! 

She  had  never,  for  one  brief  hour,  really  believed  that  he 
could  have  been,  intentionally,  guilty  of  the  crime  imputed 
to  him  ;  but  it  was  very  blessed  to  be  sure  of  the  fact. 

After  lingering  for  a  few  moments  over  the  opening  words, 
she  read  on  : 

"  I  shall  write  to  you  briefly  ;  most  likely  disconnectedly, 
for  I  am  still  trembling  from  the  grasp  which  death,  itself, 
seemed,  but  lately,  to  have  fastened  upon  me ;  and  the  words 
must  be  written — they  could  not  be  spoken — before  you  give 
up  your  patient  watching,  out  in  this  furious  storm  where 
you  have  so  many  times  waited  and  watched,  my  poor  child, 
for  your  father's  return. 

"  I  should  not  have  supposed  that  any  pofwer  on  earth,  or 
in  heaven,  could  have  compelled  me  to  write,  even,  the 
words  you  are  about  to  read  ;  but  something  down  among 
the  deep  waters  which  seemed  so  much  like  the  cold  hand  of 
the  dark  angel,  rent  away  the  thick  clouds  which  have  hung 
before  my  eyes,  ever  since  the  form  of  your  mother  passed 
from  my  sight. 

"  I  see  clearly  now,  and  your  future  life  shall  be  as  happy 
as  your  past  has  been  comfortless. 

"  You  well  know  why  I  have  remained  here  in  this  wretch 
ed  place  so  long.  Lately  I  have  had  good  reason  for  sup 
posing  that  the  man  at  the  island  whom  the  people  about 
here  call  Mr.  Aden  is,  as  I  half  believed  when  I  first  carne  to 
The  Sands,  the  man  for  whom  I  have  been  searching  ;  and 
this  noon-day  I  went  over  to  The  Eocks,  to  assure  myself  if 
such  were  the  fact. 


306  By  the  Sea. 

"  I  heard  that  young  Maitland  was  there  ;  and,  half  mad 
dened  by  my  disappointment,  for  the  man  I  suppose  must 
have  been  the  lighthouse  keeper,  and  was  not  the  one  I 
wished  to  find,  I  threw  myself  in  Luke's  way,  to  give  him  the 
opportunity  for  speaking  to  me,  which  he  has,  I  have  known, 
long  been  seeking. 

"  I  wished  to  drive  him  from  my  sight,  forever. 

"  He  availed  himself  of  the  offered  opportunity,  and  he 
told  me  that  he  loved  my  daughter,  and  entreated  my  per 
mission  to  ask  her  to  become  his  wife.  He  spoke  of  his 
hopes  for  the  future,  and  how  he  had  been  striving,  for  years, 
to  qualify  himself  for  a  very  different  employment  from  his 
present  one  ;  and  he  mentioned  the  names  of  several  most 

respectable  gentlemen  at  N ,  upon  whose  friendship  and 

assistance  he  could  rely. 

"I  listened  silently  to  all  he  wished  to  say;  and  then  I  re 
plied  to  him.  Any  heart  but  mine  would  have  bled  at  the 
agony  of  the  young  man,  when  I  had  finished  speaking ;  for 
the  villany  of  his  father,  and  all  its  consequences  to  myself 
and  to  you,  were  told  him  in  the  bitterest  words  found  in 
the  language  he  speaks  ;  and  I — a  fiend  must  have  possess 
ed  me — I  laughed  at  his  woe ! 

"  It  is  no  wonder  that  an  hour  later,  when  we  met  on  the 
water,  in  trying  to  aid  me  to  escape  from  perils,  he  guided 
his  boat  with  such  an  unskilful  hand  that  I  was  upset.  He 
leaped  into  the  waves  after  me,  to  save  my  life.  I  was  deter 
mined  to  destroy  his,  and  we  sank  together.  But  we  drifted 
apart  in  the  water. 

"  When  I  rose  again  to  the  surface,  he  was  at  a  distance, 
clinging  to  his  boat.  He  is  doubtless  saved,  and,  after  a 


Under  the  Evergreens.  307 

time  has  passed,  he  will  come  here  and  say  to  you  what  he 
has  said  to  ma. 

"I  saw  the  determination  to  do  so  in  his  face,  all  the  time 
it  was  so  distorted  with  agony  ;  and  when  we  were  struggling 
together  in  the  water,  it  was  that  which  nerved  my  fingers  to 
fasten  themselves  on  his  throat. 

"  Bat  that  is  passed  now.  And  when  he  comes,  with  that 
question  on  his  lips,  to  you,  my  child,  whose  heart  I  have 
known  longer  than  you,  yourself,  have  known  it,  reply  to  him 
as  your  feelings  dictate. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  my  native  land,  that  I  may  never  again 
resume  my  search  after  that  man  ;  it  came  to  me,  while  a 
power  which  seemed  beyond  my  own  strength  was  urging 
me  through  (he  waves  up  towards  the  beach,  that  the  God 
whom,  in  my  heart,  I  have  tried  to  deny,  but  before  whom  I 
now  reverently  bow,  will  be  my  Avenger. 

"  I  shall  leave  this  neighborhood  immediately  ;  but  am 
not  intending  to  embark  for  France  for  three  weeks. 

"Should  you  prefer  to  return  to  your  native  land,  leave  a 
letter  for  me  at  the  post-office  at  N . 

"  But  such  will  not  be  your  choice. 

"You  will  find  this  paper  to-morrow  morning,  when  you 
are  arranging  my  bed.  Look  in  the  pocket  of  the  old  coat 
you  will  discover  lying  above  it. 

"  The  diamond  I  leave  you,  is  a  valuable  one. 

"After  you  are  married,  let  your  husband  take  it  to  some 
lapLlary.  Tae  s:im  it  will  bring  will  enable  him — you  can 
trasfc  him  in  all  thi.n^3,  he  is  worthy  of  your  confidence — to 
enter  at  once  into  the  business  for  which  the  education  he 
has  managed  to  obtain,  even  under  the  disadvantageous 


308  By  the  Sea. 

circumstances  in  which  he  has  been  placed,  well  qualifies 
him,  and  which  he  would  have  made  an  effort  to  engage  in, 
in  a  small  way,  some  time  since,  only  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  leave  The  Sands.  You  heart  will  tell  you  why. 

"  Adieu,  my  child  !  If  I  do  not  hear  from  you  within  two 
weeks  —  I  say  it  not  unkindly  —  never  seek  your  father! 
Heaven  preserve  and  bless  you  !" 

n  Bois." 


Brendice  read  the  letter  through  twice. 

Once,  it  was  perused  very  hurriedly,  and  very  eagerly, 
while  every  word,  though  the  arm  of  the  writer  was  suffering 
so  greatly,  and  would,  sometimes,  be  so  very  weary,  that,  to 
another  eye,  much  might  have  been  well  nigh  illegible,  came 
out  plainly  to  her,  as  a  printed  page  ;  and  the  closing  words 
—  her  father's  name  and  his  benediction,  were  bedewed  by 
her  with  grateful  tears,  and  kissed  by  loving  lips. 

But  the  second  reading  had  been  slow  and  difficult.  The 
parallel  lines  were  crossing  each  other,  and  the  words  were 
dancing  up  and  down  before  her  eyes,  chasing  each  other  so 
swiftly  over  the  page,  that  it  was  a  task  for  the  reader  to 
arrest  them,  and  settle  them  back  in  their  places.  And  when 
it  was  ended,  and  the  paper  was  folded  in  its  old  seams,  and 
the  wax  was  heated,  and  the  piecea  joined  together  again, 
and  it  was  laid  on  the  table  beside  her,  the  dry,  aching  eyes 
gazed  hopelessly  upon  it,  as  if  it  had  been  the  Book  of  Fate. 

"  One  more  round  of  the  ladder  is  yet  to  be  crossed  !  and 
then  —  will  life  end  with  the  struggle  ?" 

Brendice  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  opened  the  door  of  her 
dwelling.  The  cool  air  was  very  grateful  now  to  the  uncov- 


Under  the  Evergreens.  309 

ered  brow,  and  she  stepped  out  into  it,  looking  mechanically 
up  the  beach,  along  the  row  of  fish-houses,  and  resting  on 
the  most  distant  of  them  ;  and  then  a  thrill  ran  through  her 
frame. 

She  had,  most  likely,  not  been  mistaken,  the  previous 
evening,  in  thinking  there  was  a  light  burning  in  the  Mait- 
land  dwelling.  At  least  now  one  was  plainly  enough  visible 
there. 

For  a  moment  a  sense  of  weakness  stole  over  the  girl,  and 
she  stepped  back  to  the  doorway,  and  leaned  heavily  against 
it.  But  it  passed  from  her,  and  she  grew  stronger  and 
stronger,  as  she  saw  a  form  coming  down  quickly  over  the 
ledge,  strengthened,  it  seemed,  by  the  sound  of  the  swift, 
firm  tread  upon  the  rocks  ;  and  she  was  quite  herself,  when 
the  young  man  drew  near  and  paused  abruptly,  but  a  few 
feet  distant  from  her. 

He  seemed  a  little  embarrassed  at  meeting  her  so  suddenly 
face  to  face,  for  his  voice  was  slightly  unsteady  as  he  said, 
simply  :  "  Brendice !" 

But  she  was  very  calm,  outwardly,  as  she  pronounced  his^ 
name  : 

"  Luke !"  and  after  a  pause,  which  he  seemed  unable  to 
break,  she  added,  quietly,  coming  directly  to  the  point  which 
was  uppermost,  at  the  moment,  in  his  mind  : 

"  My  father  is  in  France  !  He  sailed  for  his  native  land, 
early  last  autumn." 

"Alive?  thank  Heaven!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  fer 
vently  and  devoutly. 

"  I  have  just  now,  within  the  hour,  learned  the  fact,"  she 
continued,  "  from  a  letter  which  my  father  left  for  me  ;  and 


310  By  the  Sea. 

which,   through  my    carelessness,    I    failed  to   find    until 
to-night !" 

"  You  hare  not  been  thinking,  all  this  time,  while  you  sup 
posed  he  was  dead" — he  spoke  quickly  and  earnestly  now, 
— "  you  have  not  for  a  moment  believed  that  I " — 

"  No !"  Brendice  interrupted  quietly,  "  never  really  be 
lieved  that  you  intended  to  injure  him  !  I  did  not  know  what 
might  have  been  done  accidentally." 

"I  was  sure  you  could  not  believe  it!"  he  said,  drawing  a 
step  or  two  nearer  to  her,  though  she  retreated  from  the 
doorway  till  the  same  distance  was  again  between  them. 

"  The  story  in  regard  to  my  connection  with  your  father's 
disappearance  was  the  fabrication  of  a  foolish  young  fellow 
who  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  girl,  living  at  The  Rocks, 
called  Ives  Dora. 

"  He  fancied  that  my  frequent  visits  at  the  islands,  during 
the  few  months  previous  to  my  departure  from  The  Sands, 
which  were  made  for  the  sole  purpose  of  learning  something 
about  the  lighthouse  keeper,  in  whom  from  a  child,  though 
I  was  far  from  suspecting  who  he  was,  I  had  felt  a  great  in 
terest,  (which  interest  was  much  increased  by  some  words  I 
last  spring  heard  G-reyson  muttering  to  himself),  were  to  see 
this  young  girl.  He  hoped  to  get  me  out  of  the  neighbor 
hood  by  starting  this  story,  which  he  knew  I  could  not 
prove  to  be  false  ;  his  brother  would  have  confirmed  his 
,  words. 

"  He  knew  I  had  escaped  drowning,  but  he  would  not 
reveal  the  fact,  lest  it  should  reach  the  ears  of  the  girl. 

"  I  feared  that  the  public  trial  of  her  son  would  kill  my 
mother,  and  when  my  boat  was  picked  up  the  second  day 


Under  the  Evergreens.  311 

after  it  was  supposed  I  was  drowned,  I  passed  for  one  of  the 
sailors  belonging  to  the  Essex,  which  was  wrecked  on  the 
Bar  during  that  violent  gale. 

"  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  save  the  life  of  the  ship's  cap 
tain,  and  that  of  the  child,  whom,  some  months  later,  I 
brought  here  to  place  in  the  care  of  my  mother — the  child 
you  have  cherished  so  tenderly  and  lovingly,  Brendice !" 

His  voice  was  trembling  a  little  now. 

"I  have  just  come  down  from  Mr.  Hall's,  where  I  have 
been  sitting  all  day,  beside — beside  him  whose  life  you  saved, 
three  nights  since,  over  at  the  lighthouse ! 

"  You  have  had  a  noble  revenge,  Brendice !  Heaven  itself 
must  have  interfered  to  give  you  the  power  to  execute  it.  In 
his  intervals  of  reason  to-day,  my  father  has  told  me  all  about 
it.  And  Mr.  Hall  has  informed  me  also  of  what  you  have 
done  for  the  little  boy.  If  " — 

"You  were  speaking  of  yourself,  Luke!"  Brendice  inter 
rupted.  "You  saved  the  life  of  the  ship's  captain,  Singleton. 
Was  he  the  husband  of  Mr.  Hall's  adopted  daughter  ?  or  did 
Eachel  Eoss  marry  Mr.  Aden?" 

She  asked  the  question  without  feeling  much  concern  in 
the  reply.  She  only  wished  to  draw  away  his  thoughts  from 
herself;  and  she  was  wondering  what  she  would  do  when  this 
interview  with  the  young  man  was  ended. 

He  perceived  her  lack  of  interest  in  the  subject,  but  he 
went  on  :  "  She  married  Mr.  Aden,  my  father's  half-brother. 
Little  Koss  is  my  cousin.  When  I  brought  him  here,  the 
probability  was,  as  I  then  said  to  you,  for  I  knew,  soon  after 
doing  so,  that  it  was  in  your  arms  I  had  placed  the  child, 
that  he  was  an  orphan. 


312  By  the  Sea. 

"Captain  Singleton  and  the  boy,  with  myself,  were  out 
upon  the  sea  for  a  day  and  a  night.  We  could  not  manage 
the  boat,  and  we  were  too  far  from  the  land  to  attempt  to 
reach  it  by  swimming.  And,  beside,  he  had  received  such 
an  injury  at  the  time  of  the  shipwreck,  that  it  caused  his 
death  a  few  months  after. 

"  I  was  almost  as  much  exhausted  as  he  was,  by  my  long 
struggling  s  with  the  waves,  and  my  abstinence  from  food. 

"  We  did  not  expect  to  escape  death  ;  the  captain  was  very 
sure  that  his  days  were  numbered,  and  we  began  to  tell  each 
other  about  ourselves.  But  when  I  mentioned  my  name,  I 
found  that  he  knew  more  about  my  family  than  I  did  myself. 
He  -informed  me  of  the  marriage  of  my  uncle  with  his,  the 
captain's  cousin  ;  and  that  Mr.  Aden,  in  part  for  his  own 
pleasure,  in  part  at  the  earnest  desire  of  his  brother,  had 
given  up  his  post  at  the  lighthouse  to  my  father.  My  uncle, 
he  told  me,  took  his  wife  to  Italy. 

"  Her  delicate  health  was  much  improved  by  the  change  of 
climate,  and  they  were  happy  in  each  other  ;  but  he  had  not 
prospered  in  his  pecuniary  affairs.  In  fact  their  circumstances 
were  such  that  they  finally  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  ever 
returning  to  their  native  land,  and  Captain  Singleton,  just 
before  sailing  on  what  proved  to  be  his  last  voyage,  sought 
out  their  humble  dwelling,  as  he  had  promised  to  do,  to 
receive  my  uncle's  instructions  relative  to  his  affairs  here. 
He  found  the  family  in  the  utmost  destitution  and  distress. 

"  Mr.  Aden  was,  it  was  thought,  dying  of  a  most  malignant 
fever,  which  was  raging  in  the  neighborhood ;  and  his 
distracted  wife,  who  was  scarcely  more  alive  than  her  husband, 
begged  her  cousin  to  take  her  only  child  with  him  to 


Under  the  Evergreens.  313 

America.  The  captain,  who  had  been  married  less  than  a 
year,  willingly  took  charge  of  the  child,  to  whom  his  wife 
soon  became  very  much  attached  ;  but  that  unfortunate  lady, 
with  her  own  infant,  only  a  few  days  old,  was  drowned  when 
the  Essex  was  wrecked. 

"  The  little  boy  was  saved,  and  I  promised  Captain  Single 
ton,  for  I  did  not  leave  him  for  the  few  months  he  survived 
the  loss  of  his  wife,  that  the  child  should  be  my  very  especial 
charge. 

"That  child  was  little  Boss.  I  brought  him  here  to  leave 
him  in  the  care  of  my  mother,  until  the  time  should  come 
when  I  could  return  here  openly,  and  ask  somebody  to  be 
my  dear  wife,  and  a  mother  to  the  sweet  babe !" 

He  spoke  the  words  softly,  but  suddenly ;  and  Brendice, 
whose  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  eastern  sky,  where  the 
beacon  lamps  were  burning  brightly,  and  whose  stern  will 
was  beginning  to  answer  the  question — what  would  she  do 
when  this  interview  with  Luke  was  ended  ? — knew  that  the 
young  man  stood  closely  by  the  doorway,  now,  and  that  he 
was  watching,  eagerly,  in  the  bright  moonlight,  for  some 
change  in  the  impassive  expression  of  her  features. 

She  did  not  move  farther  away.  No  matter  what  her  heart 
was  doing ;  not  a  muscle  of  her  face  could  stir,  not  the 
faintest  flush  could  come  into  the  cheek,  which  had  been 
strangely  pale  ever  since  that  letter  had  been  refolded  and 
sealed,  except  at  her  bidding  ;  and  her  words  were  firm  and 
cold  as  if  they  were  issuing  from  lips  of  ice. 

"  When  you  brought  the  child  here,  the  probability  was, 
you  say,  that  he  was  an  orphan.  Have  you  learned,  since, 
that  such  was  the  fact  ?" 

14 


-By  the  Sea. 

"No!"  he  replied,  after  a  brief  pause,  while  his  hand 
passed  once  or  twice  over  his  brow. 

"  It  was  Captain  Singleton's  wish  that  I  should  learn  the  fate 
of  his  cousin  and  her  husband.  It  was  my  own  wish  too.  If 
they  were  living,  he  desired  me  to  place  in  their  hands  the 
little  property  he  bequeathed  them ;  and  the  next  morning 
after  I  brought  the  child  here,  I  went  as  a  sailor  on  board  a 
steamship  bound  for  Italy,  thinking,  by  the  time  I  should  be 
able  to  return  home,  the  young  girl,  Ives  Dorn,  and  her 
lover,  would  have  settled  the  difficulty  between  them,  and 
the  man  could  be  persuaded  to  retract  what  he  had  said  in 
relation  to  me. 

"I  obtained  my  discharge  as  soon  as  the  ship  reached  her 
port ;  but  as  they  had  changed  their  place  of  residence  soon 
after  learning,  as  they  did,  from  a  foreign  journal,  of  the  loss 
of  Captain  Singleton's  ship,  and  the  death  of  his  wife  and 
the  child,  which  they  doubted  not  was  their  own,  it  was 
some  time  before  I  found  them. 

"  They  were  then  in  good  health,  and  thanks  to  a  noble 
lady  to  whom  both  of  them,  my  aunt  thought,  owed  their 
lives,  my  uncle  was  engaged  in  such  a  lucrative  business  that 
they  .were  purposing,  in  a  year  or  two,  to  return  to  their 
native  land. 

"You  should  have  seen  their  joy,  Brendice,  when  I  told 
them  that  their  child  was  alive,  and  heard  their  expressions 
of  gratitude  for  your  care  of  him. 

"  Some  papers  from  home  had  come  to  our  ship's'  officers, 

and  one  of  them,  published  at  N ,  contained  quite  a 

lengthened  account,  though  an  inaccurate  one,  of  the  finding 
of  a  young  child,  wandering,  at  midnight,  far  down  on  the 


Under  the  Evergreens.  31 5 

sea-shore,  where  it  probably  had  been  left  to  perish.  Its 
cries  had  been  heard  by  a  young  girl,  watching  at  the  bed 
side  of  a  dead  woman,  it  was  said. 

"  The  town  authorities  had  decided  to  send  the  deserted 
child  to  the  almshouse,  but  the  girl  who  discovered  it  and 
rescued  it  from  death,  took  it  to  her  own  destitute  home, 
and  was  bestowing  on  it  the  tenderest  care  and  attention. 

"  I  knew  then  to  whom  I  had  given  the  child,  and  I  told 
them  of  you,  Brendice!  "Words  cannot  express  their 
gratitude  to  you  ;  and  my  own  thanks  " — 

"  No  thanks  are  due  me,  from  any  one.  I  cared  for  the 
child  because  I  wished  to.  "We  will  not  talk  about  it !" 

Brendice  said  this,  and  something  in  her  manner,  added, 
pleasantly  enough,  but  firmly  : 

"We  will  not  converse  farther,  on  any  subject,  Luke 
JUaitland !  Good-night !" 

But  the  young  man  would  not  understand  the  implied 
words.  He  had  stepped  close  to  her  side,  now,  and  was 
leaning  against  the  doorway  ;  and  when  he  spoke  again,  it 
was  in  such  a  low,  moved  tone,  that  she  looked  into  his  face. 

"  I  came  over  to  The  Sands  last  night,"  he  said,  "  and  spent 
some  hours  in  the  room  where  my  mother  died, — near  the 
spot  where  I  last  saw  her  lying,  as  I  then  thought,  in  peaceful 
sleep  ;  and  when  I  went  from  there,  it  was  to  go  over  to  the 
hill-side,  to  the  cluster  of  evergreens. 

"  Mr.  Hall  had  told  me  where  she  was  buried,  and  who 
had  selected  the  place  ;  and  who,  by  the  right  she  had 
acquired,  by,  most  likely,  saving  my  mother's  life  on  the 
night  when  she  was  watching  on  the  cliff  for  the  return  of 
her  boy  ;  by  her  loved  companionship  ever  .after,  and  by  her 


316  By  the  Sea. 

kind,  tender  care, — it  has  all  been  told  me,  Brendice, — of  the 
feeble,  deserted  woman,  had  stood  as  chief  mourner  beside 
her  grave.  It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  knelt  there  under  the 
evergreens,  that  the  face  of  my  mother  was  looking  down 
upon  me  from  among  the  many  bright  eyes  of  heaven  ; 
and  in  the  soft,  plaintive  sounds  of  the  whispering  trees, 
that  I  could  catch  the  tones  of  her  low,  gentle  voice. 

"  It  would  not  be  in  my  power  to  put  into  words  what  the 
face  looked,  or  the  loved  voice  uttered.  But  I  must  tell  you 
what  I  replied  to  her,  Brendice  ! 

"  I  told  her,  on  my  bended  knee,  and  audibly,  that  when 
I  forgot  to  make  it  the  first  business  of  my  life  to  atone  to 
Brendice  Du  Bois  for  the  injury  done  her  family  by  my 
father, — when  my  tender  care  of  her  fell  short  of  that  she  had 
showed  not  only  to  my  mother,  and  to  the  little  child  I  had, 
unwittingly,  put  into  her  arms  ;  but,  in  his  hour  of  terrible 
need,  to  him  who  had  wronged  her  so  greatly  ;  and  when" — 
he  took  the  hands  she  had  clasped  firmly  over  her  heart, 
and  held  them  closely  in  his  : 

"  When  I  suffered  anything  to  weaken  the  strong  love  I 
have  cherished  for  her  these  years  past  " — 

Years  past !  how  they  came  up  before  Brendice's  vision, 
evoked  by  his  presence  ! — so  like  the  rolling  of  great,  dark 
billows  over  her,  that  everything  about  her  now  but  that 
voice,  speaking  softly  in  her  ear,  and  those  eyes,  looking  so 
gratefully  and  lovingly  in  hers, — went  from  her  thoughts. 
The  gleam  of  those  bright,  dancing  eyes  was  the  one  light 
she  had  seen  all  through  that  dark  past ;  the  sound  of  that 
clear,  assured  voice  was  the  one  note  of  music  she  had  heard. 

"  When  I  forget  all  this,  then  may  Heaven  forget  " — 


Under  the  Evergreens.  317 

"  Hush,  Luke,  hush  !     Say  no  more  1" 

She  could  not  command  her  lips  earlier  to  speak.  But  the 
tightening  hold  upon  her  hands  had  not  only  given  her 
strength  to  withdraw  them  ;  it  had  imparted  power,  too,  to 
speak  quietly. 

"  Your  reason  tells  you,  you  should  not  have  uttered  the 
words ;"  she  said,  "  but  since  you  have  spoken,  I  must 
reply  :  I  do  not  need  your  kindness  ;  I  will  not  accept  your 
love ! — not  accept  it,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  and  with  deep 
solemnity,  "  until  my  lost  mother  shall  come  up  out  of  the 
sea!  Then"— 

For  a  moment  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  there 
was  an  expression  on  the  features  of  both,  such  as  the  faces 
might  have  worn,  had  they  been  bending  over  the  suffering 
and  beloved  dying  ;  the  agony  of  grief  for  each  other  and  for 
themselves.  And  then  a  smile,  as  holy  as  it  was  beautiful, 
for  it  was  the  smile  of  Faith,  the  firm  trust  in  each  other, 
and  the  unwavering  reliance  on  Heaven,  passed  over  their 
countenances. 

The  smile  was  enough !  There  was  no  joining  of  hands, 
and  no  words  of  farewell !  * 

The  young  man  turned  away,  and  walked  with  the  same 
brisk,  firm  tread  with  which  he  had,  half  an  hour  before, 
come  down  the  beach  ;  perfecting  the  plans, — now  changed, 
however,  in  one  very  essential  particular, — he  had  been  very 
busily  forming  while  riding  down  from  the  Port,  an  hour 
before. 

That  plan  was,  as  soon  as  the  crisis  in  the  state  of  his 
father's  health  had  passed — for  his  physician  had,  that  after 
noon,  decided  that  Mr.  Maitlaud  would,  in  time,  recover  in 


318  By  the  Sea. 

some  degree  the  use  of  his  limbs,  to  leave  him  in  the  care  of 
his  friend  Mr.  Hall,  the  old  gentleman  being  very  desirous 
that  he  should  do  so,  and  go  back  to  Italy.  He  would 
acquaint  himself  with  his  uncle's  business,  and  then  take  it 
off  his  hands,  in  order  that  Mr.  Aden  might  return  to  his 
native  land,  from  which  there  now,  no  longer,  existed  a  rea 
son  why  he  should  absent  himself.  Her  foster-father  would 
be  very  anxiously  looking  forward  now  to  the  time  when 
he  could  welcome  Rachel  Aden  and  her  husband  to  his  home. 

When  Luke  went  abroad,  it  would  be  with  the  intention 
of  remaining  there.  He  had  hoped  that  Brendice  would  be 
come  his  wife,  and  go  with  him. 

But  that  was  over  now.  He  would  never  see  her  again. 
Tet  she  loved  him  ; — she  woivld  never  forget  him ! 

He  must  defer  his  journey  now,  until  his  father  had  so  far 
recovered  the  use  of  his  limbs  as  to  be  able  to  travel  ;  for  he 
must  leave  the  country,  with  his  son.  Du  Bois  was  still 
alive.  Luke  was  very  glad  of  that ;  but  if  the  Frenchman 
ever  returned  to  the  neighborhood,  Mr.  Maitland  must  not 
be  there. 

And  Brendice*  ? 

Her  eyes  had  not  followed  tlie  young  man  as  he  moved 
away.  She  stepped  back  quickly  into  her  dwelling,  and 
wrote  a  few  hasty  lines,  addressed  to  the  editor  of  the  morn 
ing  paper  published  at  N -,  and  then  walked  over  to  Mr. 

Brown's  and  gave  her  letter  to  one  of  his  sons  who  she  had 
heard  was  going  up  to  the  Port  that  night.  "When  she  re 
turned  to  her  home,  she  trimmed  her  lamp,  and  brought 
out  her  easel,  011  which  the  unfinished  painting  was  still 
stretched. 


Under  the  Evergreens.  319 

The  countenances  upon  the  canvas  were  very  life-like  ; 
that  painted  from  memory,  even  more  so  than  was  the  sweet, 
changeful  countenance  of  little  Ross. 

The  past  night,  with  the  pleasant  burden  of  the  child  upon 
her,  and  her  own  future  to  care  for,  her  plan  had  been  to 
cultivate  her  taste  for  music  and  painting,  assured  that  her 
voice  or  her  hand  would  secure  for  her  a  good  income.  Her 
first  work,  she  thought,  after  providing  herself  (by  the  sale 
of  some  valuable  articles  left  behind  him,  by  her  father)  with 
a  comfortable  lodging,  should  be  the  completion  of  this 
painting.  She  would  finish  the  youthful  face  after  nature. 
Its  rare,  sweet  beauty  could  not  be  improved.  The  other, 
she  would  try  to  make  a  copy  of  what  her  father  had  given 
her  for  a  study,  the  countenance  of  a  St.  Joseph. 

But  now  her  own  future  she  had  alone  to  care  for. 

Her  father  most  likely  would  never  seek  her  again.  He 
had  left  no  clue  which  might  lead  her  to  him,  and,  besides, 
he  had  particularly  requested  that  she  would  never  search  for 
him.  Hard  as  it  was  to  do  so  she  would  obey  him. 

She  had  conceived  and  perfected  in  her  mind  a  new  plan 
for  her  future,  while  standing  in  the  doorway  and  listening 
to  the  voice  of  Luke  Maitland,  and  looking  away  to  the 
islands. 

When  she  was  presenting  her  Easter-offering,  she-  was,  in 
her  heart,  promising  heaven  to  follow  the  great  Master;  and 
His  footsteps  had  marked  out,  for  his  disciples,  the  pathway 
of  mercy  alone. 

After  carefully  removing  the  canvas  from  the  easel,  she 
rolled  it  up,  and  laid  it  away,  and  then  sat  down  to  read  the 
Evening  Lesson  for  the  holy  Easter-day. 


320  By  the  Sea. 

"  The  gate  of  everlasting  life." 

Who  will  complain  of  the  roughness  of  the  way,  if  that 
shall  oe  found  open  at  the  termination  of  the  journey? 

She  had  expected  to  have  a  fierce  conflict  with  herself, 
but  a  Voice  had  spoken  to  the  billows,  rising  up  before  her, 
in  the  distance  :  "Peace,  be  still!" 

And  the  smooth  waters,  suddenly  all  bright  and  glorious 
with  fehe  reflection  of  the  divine  Presence,  and  echoing  and 
re-echoing  in  their  deep  swelling  cadences  their  eternal 
Amen,  were  flowing  gently  beneath  her  feet,  lifting  her  up 
higher  and  higher  towards  heaven  ;  and  with  firm  lip  and 
trusting  heart,  Brendice  knelt  and  prayed  : 

"  We  humbly  beseech  Thee,  that,  as  by  Thy  special  grace 
preventing  us,  Thou  dost  put  into  our  minds  good  desires,  so 
by  Thy  continual  help  we  may  bring  the  same  to  good 
effect." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

EASTER-FLOWERS. 

lACHEL'S  child!" 

Mr.  Hall,  not  quite  satisfied  with  himself  for 
having  taken  little  Eoss  from  Brendice  Du  Bois, 
but  feeling  sure  that  Mrs.  Adams  would  tell  her  it  was  by  no 
means  his  intention  to  separate  the  child  from  her,  and 
thinking  he  would  send  for  her  very  early  the  next  morning 
and  ask  her  to  become  an  honored  inmate  of  his  house,  was 
whispering  the  words  to  himself,  "Kachel's  child!"  over  and 
over,  as  his  carriage  rolled  away  from  the  church. 

His  moistened  eyes  rested  on  the  little  face,  which,  not 
withstanding  Euth's  best  endeavor  to  call  back  the  sweet 
smile,  would  turn  very  often  with  an  eager,  anxious  look, 
and  quivering  lip,  towards  the  road  the  carriage  had  passed 
over. 

"  Rachel's  child,  and  George  Aden  is  his  father !" 
Mrs.  Adams  had  whispered  her  suspicions  to  him  as  soon 
as  the  services  of  the  church  were  ended ;  but  Mr.  Hall  had 
been  told,  hours  earlier,  by  Luke  Maitland,  that  it  was  not 

her  cousin,  whom  Eachel  Eoss  had  married,  but  the  young 

14*  (321) 


322  By  the  Sea. 

man's  uncle,  Mr.  Aden,  and  that  her  child  was  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  He,  himself,  months  before,  had  left  the  boy  in 
the  care  of  a  female,  whom  he  afterwards  ascertained  to  be 
Brendice  Du  Bois. 

All  through  the  winter  the  old  gentleman  had  suspected 
the  little  boy  to  be  the  child  of  his  foster-daughter,  and  that 
Brendice  knew  more  in  relation  to  him  than  she  appeared 
to.  He  had  seen  the  look  which  passed  over  her  face  when 
he  repeated  the  words  whispered  in  his  ear  on  Christmas 
Eve.  But  the  girl  took  such  loving,  unselfish  care  of  him, 
that  he  determined  not  to  trouble  her  with  questions  which 
she  might  not  choose  to  answer  ;  compelling  himself  to  be 
silent  in  regard  to  the  child,  and  satisfying  himself  with  the 
hope  that  when  the  weather  and  his  health  would  suffer  him 
to  open  his  house,  she  would  be  persuaded  to  become  a 
member  of  his  family  ;  and  that  by  his  kindness  to  herself 
and  the  little  boy,  he  would  be  able,  at  length,  to  win  her 
confidence. 

Strangely  enough,  Luke  Maitland  had  returned  to  The 
Sands  on  the  very  day  that  his  father  was  taken  to  the  house 
of  Mr.  Hall.  He  had  sought  him  at  The  Bocks,  and  was 
informed  by  Greyson,  who  was  there  in  charge  of  the  lights, 
where  he  might  be  found. 

"  Poor  George !"  Mr.  Hall  said  to  himself,  as  his  carriage 
was  rolling  back  towards  his  home,  "he  should  not  have 
deceived  me  so ;  but,  remembering  the  past,  he  could  not 
ask  me  for  Rachel.  I  should  not  have  given  her  to  him,  if 
he  had.  I  should  only  have  told  him  that  he  was  seeking 
my  wealth  then  in  a  no  less  dishonorable  way  than  that  in 
which  he  had  sought  it  once  before ;  and  that  would  have 


Easter-flowers.  3^23 

been  wronging  him,  greatly,  for  it  was  only  tier,  I  see,  that 
he  wanted. 

"But  I  had  not  forgiven  him,  then,  his  youthful  crimes!" 

He  was  forgiven  now,  freely  forgiven,  the  old  gentleman 
thought,  with  deepening  emotion,  and  he  prayed  that  he 
might  have  strength — for  the  surprises  which  had  come  to 
him  within  the  two  past  days,  and  especially  the  anxiety 
which  he  felt  in  regard  to  Mr.  Maitland,  had  greatly  shaken 
his  feeble  frame — that  he  might  have  strength  sufficient  to 
send  the  words  of  forgiveness  to  George  Aden,  and  of 
tenderest  love  to  his  foster-daughter,  and  to  ask  them  to 
return  to  him,  and  bless  his  last  days  with  their  presence. 

Some  hours  before,  he  had  told  Mr.  Maitland  what  he 
would  write  to  George  Aden,  and  Philip  had  made  such  a 
strange  reply  that  Mr.  Hall  feared  his  reason  had  quite  left 
him  ;  but  as  the  old  gentleman  approached  his  dwelling,  he 
met  the  physician  just  coming  out  from  a  visit  to  his  patient ; 
and  to  his  anxious  inquiry,  the  doctor  replied  that  the 
paralyzed  man  was  now  in  full  possession  of  his  reason,  and 
could  speak  quite  intelligibly  ;  and,  without  doubt,  he  would 
soon  have  the  partial  use  of  his  limbs.  The  same  opinion 
had  just  been  expressed  to  Mr.  Maitland,  and  he  had  told  his 
son  to  draw  the  curtains  more  closely  over  the  windows, 
and  leave  the  chamber  ;  he  wished  to  be  alone. 

Luke  understood,  very  well,  why  that  spasm  of  pain 
passed  over  his  father's  face  as  the  physician  spoke  ;  yet 
unable  to  utter  a  hopeful  or  encouraging  word,  not  venturing 
even  to  seek  the  averted  eye,  he  quitted  the  room  to  meet 
those  just  returning  from  church,  and  to  catch  his  little 
cousin  in  his  arms. 


324  -By  the  Sea. 

The  child  seemed  not  quite  to  have  forgotten  him,  though 
it  had  been  months  since  anything  had  happened  to  recal  the 
remembrance  of  him  ;  and  very  soon,  encouraged  by  Luke's 
caresses,  he  began,  almost  sobbingly,  to  whisper  the  story  of 
his  great  grief  in  the  attentive  ear  : 

He  could  not  find  his  dear  Brendice ! 

But  the  reply  which  was  given  in  the  same  tone,  brought 
back  its  sweetest  smiles  to  the  little  face,  and  the  arms  were 
reached  up  slowly  and  half  timidly,  to  be  clasped  around  the 
young  man's  neck. 

And  then  Luke  began  to  speak  to  him  of  his  mother,  whose 
portrait,  painted  in  her  early  youth,  the  housekeeper  was 
directed  to  bring  from  Mr.  Hall's  private  sitting-room,  that 
the  little  boy  might  see  it. 

Brendice  had  a  nice  picture  too,  the  child  was  trying  to 
say  to  his  new-found  friend,  who  listened  with  a  thrill  of 
surprise  and  pleasure, — "  a  nice  picture  ;  little  Boss  and  " — 
he  looked  into  Luke's  face,  very  undecidedly  for  a  moment, — 
"  and  this  man !" 

Through  the  partially  open  door,  Mr.  Maitland  heard  the 
pleasant  blending  of  voices.  His  ear  was  yet  too  dull  to 
distinguish  the  words,  but  he  knew  they  were  cheerfully 
spoken. 

The  remark  of  the  physician  in  relation  to  himself,  had 
perhaps  caused  the  altered  tone,  and  he  tried  to  draw  the 
bed-covering  over  his  head  to  shut  out  the  sound  ;  and 
endeavored  to  forget,  or  to  disbelieve,  what  the  doctor  had 
said. 

Life  was  not  desired  by  him,  now,  as  he  lay  there. 

Death  had  seemed  very  terrible  when  he  was  lying,  help- 


Easter-flowers.  326 

less,  far  up  the  stairway  at  the  lighthouse,  expecting  mo 
mentarily  to  commence  that  fearful  descent ;  and  at  the 
intervals  when  consciousness  had  returned,  he  felt  very 
grateful  that  the  end  had  not  come  to  him  in  that  frightful 
way.  At  his  lucid  moments  since,  he  had  promised  himself 
and  Heaven  that  the  remnant  of  his  life  should  be  spent  in 
undoing,  so  far  as  possible,  his  former  evil  work. 

For  two  days  and  two  nights  his  intervals  of  consciousness 
had  been  few  and  brief.  He  had  waked  for  the  first  time 
from  his  death-like  swoon,  to  find  himself  in  the  spot  where 
Brendice  Du  Bois  had  left  him  ;  his  broken  arm  and  wearied 
head  placed  carefully  upon  cushions,  and  to  hear  feet,  which 
proved  to  be  those  of  young  Jones  and  a  physician,  coming 
up  to  him  over  the  stairs.  Hours  after,  he  was  conscious 
that  he  was  carried  from  the  island,  to  be  conveyed  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  Hall. 

His  wandering  thoughts  were  next  called  back  by  a  sound 
he  had  not  heard  for  many  years  : — "  Father  !"  and  as  he 
lifted  his  feeble  glance  upward,  thinking  that  he  must  be 
dreaming,  the  face  of  his  son,  which  he  had  supposed  months 
ago  to  have  turned,  in  dying  agony,  its  last  look  towards 
Heaven,  as  another  face, — he  thought  of  it  at  that  moment  of 
returning  reason,  for  he  could  never  shut  out  those  features 
from  his  gaze, — had  looked  up,  long  time  ago. 

And  then  the  young  man  bent  over  him,  and  as  if  that 
weary  lapse  of  years  had  not  corne  between  them,  had  touched 
his  lips  to  his  father's  brow  ;  and  began  to  talk  to  him  quietly 
and  pleasantly,  answering  the  questions  which  the  tongue 
could  not  ask, — where  he  had  been,  why  he  had  gone  from 
The  Sands,  and  how  the  report  which  iiad  connected  his 


326  By  the  Sea. 

disappearance  with  that  of  Monsieur  Dn  Bois,  would  be 
likely,  now,  to  be  contradicted  by  its  foolish  originator. 

"When  Mr.  Maitland  was  at  length  assured  that  it  was  no 
pleasant  fancy,  but  a  living  reality  which  was  before  him,  an 
expression  of  gratitude  rose  to  his  lips  that  the  sin  of  the 
father  had  not  been  visited  on  the  son,  and  that,  in  addition 
to  being  spared  long  enough  to  restore  to  Brendice  Du  Bois 
the  wealth  which  had  belonged  to  her  parents,  and  to 
undeceive  his  kind  friend,  Mr.  Hall,  in  relation  to  himself 
and  his  brother,  before  his  eyes  were  closed  forever,  they 
were  permitted  to  look  on  this  loved  face. 

The  letter  which  had  been  written  for  Mr.  Hall's  perusal 
on  the  previous  Wednesday,  containing  the  humble  confes 
sion  of  his  own  crimes  against  the  benefactor  of  his  youth, 
and  the  entire  exculpation  of  his  brother,  he  was  sure  had 
not  yet  reached  the  old  gentleman,  and  he  was  very  glad  of 
it.  It  would  be  time  enough  to  make  that  confession,  when 
he  was  certain  his  last  moment  was  drawing  near. 

He  would  then  send  for  the  proprietor  of  the  Ocean  House, 
and  tell  him  of  the  treasure  concealed  in  the  wall  of  one  of 
his  chambers,  and  to  whom  that  treasure  belonged.  He 
would  confess  to  Mr.  Hall  that  his  brother,  George  Aden, 
had  always  been  most  worthy,  and  he,  himself,  most  undeserv 
ing  of  the  kindness  the  old  gentleman  had  ever  been  disposed 
to  show  them.  He  would  say  to  his  son  that  it  was  no  want 
of  love  for  his  mother,  nor  lack  of  paternal  affection  for  him, 
which  had  induced  his  father  to  leave  his  family  alone,  and 
in  destitute  circumstances, — a  fatal  error,  committed  in  a 
moment  of  great  excitement,  and  sincerely  repented  of,  ever 


Easter -flowers.  32} 

after,  having  been  the  sole  cause  of  their  desertion,  and  of 
his  voluntary  exclusion  from  all  society. 

But  to  live  on  after  these  confessions  had  been  made,  with 
a  shattered  body,  and  perhaps  enfeebled  mind,  to  meet  the 
watchful,  pitying  glance  of  his  old  friend,  as  he  had  seen  it 
turn  on  his  wronged  brother  ;  to  receive  his  support  from  the 
young  man  whose  gentle  mother  had  been  so  injured  by  him, 
and  on  whom  he  had  brought  such  disgrace !  The  gloss  he 
might  throw  over  his  deeds  would  soon  be  worn  away  ;  and — 
why  might  not  Du  Bois  have  escaped  death  as  well  as  Luke — 
again,  perhaps,  to  be  hunted  by  the  Frenchman,  who,  if  Mr. 
Maitland  had  confessed  the  robbery,  would  use  that  confes 
sion  as  a  proof  of  his  commission  of  that  other  fearfully 
greater  crime. 

Live  !  Yes,  his  mental  agony,  sharpening  his  perceptions, 
convinced  him  that  life  was  surely,  and  not  very  slowly 
returning  to  him  ;  and  a  wild  wish  crossed  his  mind — a  wish 
that  its  full  strength  would  come  back,  for  a  moment,  to  that 
palsied  right  arm,  that  his  fingers  could  fasten  one  strong 
hold  on  that  sharp  knife  accidentally  left  on  the  table  by  his 
side. 

But  nothing,  save  that  feeble  gaze,  could  be  extended 
towards  it ;  and  a  deeper  mist  seemed  rising  before  his  eye. 

His  thoughts  began  again  to  wander. 

"  What  mean  ye  by  this  Service  ?" 

The  voices  below  stairs  were  reading  the  Evening  Lesson, 
and  the  words  arrested  his  scattering  senses. 

"It  is  the  sacrifice  of  the  Lord's  Passover,  when  He  passed 
over  the  houses  of  the  " — 

And  Mr.  Maitland  knew  that  the  day  which  now  drew 


328  By  the  Sea. 

to  a  close,  for  a  bright  sunbeam  found  its  way  quite  athwart 
his  chamber,  was  the  joyful  Easter-day,  and  the  bells  he  had 
listened  to  awhile  since,  were  the  merry  Easter-bells  ;  and  he 
thought  of  an  Easter  evening,  many  years  ago,  when  he  was 
in  a  foreign  land.  It  was  the  evening  of  his  nineteenth 
birth-day,  but  it  was  not  a  joyous  occasion  to  him. 

He  had  been  for  some  weeks  suffering  from  a  painful  illness, 
and  during  all  the  time,  he  had  scarcely  seen  a  face  at  his 
bedside,  besides  that  of  his  careful  but  unsympathizing 
attendant.  But  as  the  sunlight  of  that  Easter-day  was  fading, 
the  sound  of  little  pattering  feet  was  heard  near  his  door  ;  a 
sweet,  musical  voice  said  something  in  a  strange  language, 
and  then  a  pair  of  bright  black  eyes  peered  into  the  room, 
and  a  white  hand  held  up  before  his  gaze  a  bunch  of  beautiful 
flowers.  "Easter-flowers"  they  were. 

The  child  had  carried  them  to  the  church,  but  she  had 
received  them  again  from  the  hand  of  the  priest,  to  be  taken 
to  the  young  man  who  was  sick  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  flowers  were  bound  together  by  a  white  ribbon  on 
which  the  skilful  little  fingers  had  wrought  some  sacred  em 
blems,  one  encircling  her  own  name. 

He  had  seen  the  child  before,  as  she  was  a  distant  relative 
of  his  employer,  and  when  she  drew  near  his  pillow,  and  laid 
her  sweet  gift  upon  it,  she  pointed  to  the  name  "  Marie," 
and  to  the  slip  of  paper  also  twisted  about  the  flowers,  and 
on  which  was  written  : 

"'In  Adam  all  die;  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made  alive.' 
Pray  for  the  donor,  that  the  life  in  Christ  may  be  given  to 
her !  She  is  praying  that  the  earthly  life  may  be  restored  to 
thee!" 


Easter -flowers.  329 

He  had  never  afterwards  seen  the  child,  for  she  was  only  a 
visitor  at  the  city.  Her  home  was  in  another  land.  But 
he  had  not  forgotten  her,  and  the  bit  of  ribbon  was  in  his 
possession  still,  always  kept  about  his  person,  as  his  wife's 
miniature  had  been. 

He  had  looked  at  it  many  times  on  Easter-evenings, 
especially  during  those  long  years  he  had  passed  at  The 
Bocks,  and  wondered  what  had  been  the  fate  of  the  sweet 
child,  and  if  she  was  living  still. 

He  was  thinking  of  her  now,  so  busily,  that  he  had  for 
gotten  himself,  and  was  quite  regardless  of  the  light  footsteps 
within  his  chamber,  and  his  lips  began  to  move  audibly. 
Many  times,  as  he  had  thought  of  that  beautiful  child,  had 
he  wished  that  human  existence  and  all  the  blessings  it  may 
afford,  might  long  be  hers.  Of  the  life  she  had  asked  him 
to  pray  might  be  given  her,  he  had  not  cared  to  think. 

But  now,  as  he  lay  there,  the  contemplation  of  the  com 
mission  of  a  deed  more  fearful  than  any  of  which  he  had 
been  guilty,  and  the  cursing  of  the  physical  weakness  which 
prevented  its  execution,  yet  scarcely  passed  away  from  his 
mind,  his  lipe  were  murmuring  the  words  audibly,  but  with 
feeble  voice  and  impaired  memory — the  thought  of  the  past, 
long  years  quite  gone  from  his  mind,  and  the  faith  his  mo 
ther  had  taught  him  in  his  early  youth,  returning  to  him 
with  all  its  strength  and  holy  beauty. 

"  Heaven  bless  the  sweet  child,  little  Marie,  on  this  joy 
ous  Easter-day,  with  that  great  gift  she  desires — the  'Life  in 
Christ,'  as  she  is  praying  for  my  earthly  life !" 

The  eye  closed  then.  He  thought,  as  the  lid  was  droop 
ing,  that  a  vision  of  beautiful  forms,  and  soft,  rainbow  hues 


330  By  the  Sea. 

was  presenting  itself  to  his  failing  sight,  and  that  the  air  was 
filled  with  a  pure  sweet  perfume  ;  but  his  reason  must  be 
leaving  him,  he  believed,  with  the  closing  of  the  eye,  and  the 
dulling  of  the  ear,  for  a  low  sound  seemed  to  be  mingling 
with  that  odorous  air,  reminding  him  of  the  voice  he  had 
listened  to  so  long  ago, — he  perceived  now,  again,  the  inter 
val  of  time, — and  he  fancied  that  the  eyes  which  had  been 
following  him,  ever  since  those  fearful  moments  when  he 
stood  on  the  deck  of  the  burning  ship,  were  resting  on  him, 
looking  out  from  those  fair  shapes  and  soft  hues.  And  then 
the  thoroughly-exhausted  nature  sank  into  a  quiet  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  again,  several  hours  had  passed.  It  was 
near  midnight  now. 

His  son  was  sitting  beside  him,  and  on  the  table  where 
that  object  towards  which  his  eye  had  so  wistfully  turned, 
had  been  lying,  was  now  a  beautiful  boquet  of  Easter-flowers. 

A  lady  had  brought  them  to  the  sick-room  while  he  was 
sleeping.  She  was  a  stranger  in  the  city,  and  was  boarding 
at  one  of  the  hotels,  Mr.  Hall's  housekeeper  said. 

She  had  been  attending  the  church  services  for  the  past 
two  days,  and  at  the  Easter-festival  the  lady  had  sent  a  great 
profusion  of  flowers  to  St.  Mary's,  which  she  afterwards,  ac 
companied  by  the  sister  of  the  rector,  assisted  in  distributing 
among  the  sick  of  the  parish. 

Luke  said  this,  as  he  gently  lifted  his  father's  head  from 
the  bed,  and  gave  him  some  drops  of  nourishment.  Mr. 
Maitland  did  not  notice  the  remarks,  particularly,  for  that 
dream  had  not  yet  passed  away  from  his  mind.  It  certainly 
must  have  been  a  dream. 

He  had  fancied  that  some  one  was  praying  for  the  resto- 


-  Easter-flowers.  331 

ration  of  his  physical  powers,  and  the  healing  of  his  wounded 
soul ;  and  as  his  head,  with  much  of  its  terrible  pain  gone, 
rested  again  on  the  smoothed  pillows,  and  his  eyes  turned  to 
wards  those  sweet  flowers,  he  seemed  to  be  drawing  fro  in 
their  pure,  fresh  breath,  health  for  the  body,  and  strength 
for  the  mind. 

There  were  no  rare  and  costly  exotics  among  the  sweet 
flowers,  though  the  lady  had  sent  many  choice  clusters,  very 
artistically  arranged,  to  the  church  that  day. 

They  were  all  wild-wood  flowers,  grouped  simply  and  na 
turally  ;  little,  modest,  pale-hued  things,  but  their  pure 
breath  seemed  voiceful  with  the  wo'rds  of  faith  and  hope, 
and  Mr.  Maitland  lay  quiet  and  silent,  listening  to  their  ut 
terance,  and  thinking  of  years  long  gone  by,  when  his  heart 
and  his  hands  were  unstained  by  crimes. 

The  happy,  sinless  childhood  had  passed  away  like  the 
fleeting  bloom  of  the  early  spring  flowers;  but  Nature  brought 
back  beauty  and  perfume  to  the  long- withered  plants  :  and 
Grace  could  purify  the  soul,  and  impart  to  it  even  a  nobler 
element  than  it  contained  when  the  great  Creator  had 
breathed  into  man  the  breath  of  life.  The  sweetest  of  all 
songs  which  will  ascend  to  the  ear  of  our  God,  shall  be 
that  which  the  redeemed  shall  sing. 

After  a  while  Mr.  Maitland  turned  his  eyes  towards  his 
son,  whose  face  was  partially  averted  ;  but  he  could  see,  even 
in  the  subdued  light  which  fell  upon  it,  that  a  change  had 
come  over  the  young  man's  countenance  since  he  left  his 
side,  just  before  sunset. 

The  joyousness  in  the  eyes,  and  the  smile  about  the  lips, 
were  gone,  and  the  face  seemed  to  have  grown  older  and 


332  By  the  Sea. 

more  thoughtful.  Once,  as  the  father  gazed,  a  troubled, 
uncertain  look  came  over  the  features,  which,  in  a  woman, 
would  have  been  resolved  into  tears  ;  but  it  passed  away 
with  the  lifting  of  the  bowed  head,  and  the  firmer  pressure 
of  the  closed  lips,  and  then  the  young  man's  eyes  turned  to 
meet  his  father's. 

For  a  moment  longer  the  silence  was  unbroken,  though 
Mr.  Maitland  seemed  striving  to  give  utterance  to  some 
dreaded  word ;  and  then  Luke  dropped  on  one  knee  close 
beside  the  bed. 

"Father,"  he  said,  looking  so  quietly  in  his  face,  that  his 
listener  grew  calmer, — •"  father,  you  wish  to  say  something  ; 
but  there  is  nothing  to  confess  to  your  son,  or  to  any  one 
else.  Those  who  have  any  right  to  know  them  are  fully 
aware  of  all  the  miserable  facts  which  we  will  never  refer  to 
after  to-night.  Mr.  Hall  received  a  few  hours  since  the 
letter  you  wrote  him  shortly  before  this  calamity  befel  3Tou. 
He  feels  most  kindly  towards  you.  The  remembrance  of  his 
own  injustice  makes  him  very  lenient  toward  others. 

"  And  that  other  affair,  Monsieur  Du  Bois  told  me  about 
it  long  ago.  But  I  have  just  heard  he  is  still  alive.  He  has 
returned  to  France.  He  may  never  come  back.  If  he  does, 
he  will  not  find  us  here. 

"  "When  I  return  to  Italy,  you  must  accompany  me.  I  will 
make  a  pleasant  home  there  for  you  and  me. 

"  We  will  restore  to  Du  Bois  the  wealth  which  has  not 
been  spent,  and,  some  time,  the  whole  amount  shall  be  re 
turned  to  him.  And  we  will  be  happy  together  yet,  dear 
father,  notwithstanding  all  that  has  happened — you  and  I — 
there  will  be  only  two  of  us  ;  but  we  will  be  happy,  remem- 


Easter -flowers.  333 

bering  the  past  only  to  urge  us  to  ever  increasing  effort  to 
do  good  to  our  fellow-beings. 

"  If  there  were  no  sin  in  the  world,  father,  our  great  Pass 
over  would  have  been  sacrificed  in  vain  !" 

"  And  she  who  saved  my  life  ?"  said  Mr.  Maitland,  after  a 
pause,  and  falteringly,  "  the  poor,  wronged  girl?" 

Luke  was  silent,  and  he  continued  : 

"  Jerry  Greyson  has  told  me  that  you  and  Brendice  Du 
Bois  loved  each  other.  Leave  me  here,  and  take  her  to  the 
happy  home,  heaven  grant,  you  may  find  in  a  spot  where 
your  father's  name  will  never  be  heard.  By  your  love  and 
care  you  will  make  her  forget  the  sorrows  of  her  past  life, 
and  him  whose  crimes  brought  them  upon  her." 

"  You  do  not  know  her,  father,"  Luke  said,  in  a  changed 
tone.  "  I  did  not,  myself,  and  so  I  went  down  to  The  Sands 
to-night,  and  asked  her,  as  I  have  purposed  to  do  for  years 
past,  to  be  my  wife." 

He  did  not  say  anything  more — it  was  not  necessary  that 
he  should  ;  and  Mr.  Maitland  knew  now  what  that  shadow 
was  which  had  fallen  on  his  son's  life. 

When  the  young  man,  as  he  ceased  speaking,  rose  to  his 
feet  and  walked  across  the  room,  to  draw  aside  the  window 
curtain,  and  look  up  for  a  moment  to  the  calm,  moon-lighted 
sky,  and  then  returned  to  his  seat  at  the  bedside,  with  that 
expression  of  composure  on  his  face,  the  wretched  fathe 
believed  that  all  of  the  punishment  which  he  had  merited 
had  now  fallen  upon  him. 


CHAPTER    XXIY. 


OUT  OF  THE  SEA. 

|VES  DOEN  and  her  young  brother,  Erie,  were  sit 
ting  idly  on  the  rocks  near  which  stood  their  rude 
cabin,  looking  away  over  the  water  and  watching 
the  Usmug-boats,  whose  white  sails  were  fast  disappearing 
in  the  morning  mists,  catching  now  and  then  a  fragment  of 
some  rude  nautical  song,  which,  usually,  their  strong  and 
clear,  though  untrained  voices,  would  have  caught  up  and 
rung  out  far  above  the  waves. 

But  they  were  quite  silent  now,  not  even  addressing  each 
other.  The  boy  appeared  very  sullen  ;  and  his  sister,  though 
there  was  a  look  of  determined  purpose  on  her  countenance, 
seemed  angry  and  perplexed. 

At  a  short  distance  from  them  was  their  boat,  with  the 
fishing-tackle  within  it,  drawn  up  upon  the  sand. 

The  gM  was  not  looking  at  it,  however. 

After  some  time,  a  woman  of  fifty  years,  with  her  two  half- 
grown  boys, — it  was  an  older  brother  of  these  lads,  who  had 
been  some  months  before  the  lover  of  Ives  Dorn,  and  whose 

attentions,  to  the  great  vexation  of  his  mother,  she  had  re- 
(334) 


Out  of  the  Sea.  335 

fused  in  her  very  decided  manner  to  receive — came  down  the 
shore. 

The  boys  were  talking  to  each  other,  in  a  low  tone,  but 
loud  enough  for  the  Dorns  to  hear,  and  with  most  emphatic 
gestures,  and  their  mother  joined  in  their  boisterous 
laughter. 

"Will  you  lend  us  your  boat,  this  morning,  my  young 
lady?"  asked  the  old  woman,  drawing  near  to  Ives,  and 
dropping  a  low  curtesy,  while  the  boys  gave  an  upward  twist 
to  their  long,  uncovered  elf-locks,  and  bowed,  almost  to  the 
ground,,  before  little  Erie. 

"  And  wish  us  good  luck  with  our  fishing  ;  wont  you  ?" 

And  the  woman  and  her  sons,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  laughter 
at  their  extreme  wit,  turned  away,  without  expecting  a  reply, 
and  began  to  push  Ives'  boat  off  into  the  water. 

The  girl's  face  turned  very  red  before  she  was  addressed, 
but  it  was  now  as  white  as  its  brown  tint  would  suffer  it  to 
be,  and  her  long  ragged  nails  cut  deep  into  her  calloused 
palms  ;  but  she  called  out  after  them,  in  her  loudest  tones,  as 
they  pushed  off  from  the  shore  : 

"  That  boat  is  old  Mother  Hub's  and  her  cubs  ;  and  I  hope 
she  will  have  good  luck  to-day  and  catch  the  " — 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  at  that  moment  the 
sound  of  oars,  coming  from  an  opposite  direction,  fell  on  her 
ear  ;  and  looking  behind  her,  she  perceived  a  boat  rounding 
the  high  rock  on  which  she  and  Erie  were  sitting,  and  a 
sweet,  clear  voice,  so  pleasant  and  cheerful  that  Ives  scarcely 
recognized  it,  said  : 

"  It  will  be  a  fine  day  for  fishing,  and  I  am  going  down  to 
the  'lower  grounds,'  Come  with  me— you  too !  I  intend  tc 


336  By  the  Sea. 

fish  there  this  season,  and  you  must  go  with  me,  for  I  have 
never  " — 

But  the  boy  interrupted  the  speaker  to  say  that  he  and 
Ives  had  no  boat ;  they  could  not  go. 

His  sullenness  was  all  gone,  now  ;  and  between  the  sobs 
which  he  could  not  choke  down,  though  he  felt  somewhat 
ashamed  of  them,  he  began  alternately  io  reproach  his  sister, 
and  to  utter  complaints  against  her  to  the  new  comer,  who, 
though  she  could  not  well  understand  his  words,  compre 
hended,  at  length,  the  cause  of  his  grief. 

It  was  the  loss  of  their  boat,  their  only  means  of  procuring 
a  subsistence. 

Ives  was  looking  askance  at  Brendice  Du  Bois,  and  wonder 
ing  how  she  would  decide  between  Erie  and  herself — whether 
she  had  done  right  in  confessing  to  Mother  Hobart  that  it 
was  herself  who  had  set  the  boat  adrift,  and  then  given  the 
woman  her  own  for  that  she  had  lost,  or  kept  her  boat, — 
everything  which  her  father  had  left  for  his  children  besides 
their  little  miserable  cabin — for  the  use  of  herself  and  her 
brother,  who  might  starve  now,  the  boy  thought,  since  it 
was  gone ;  while  the  old  fish-woman  could  have  bought 
another  boat,  and  never  felt  it. 

Brendice  determined  this — to  the  poor,  orphaned  brother 
and  sister — very  important  point  in  casuistry,  quickly. 

"  "Well,  I  am  glad  you  let  the  woman  have  the  boat !"  she 
said,  "  because  I  am  not  going  out  in  my  boat,  alone,  any 
more  ;  it  is  too  large  for  one  to  handle  well ;  and  now  I  can 
coax  you  to  fish  with  me,  this  season  !" 

Ives  rose  to  her  feet,  and  walked  down  to  the  waters'  edge. 
She  could  not  believe  what  was  said  to  her. 


Out  of  the  Sea.  337 

"  And  besides,"  Brendice  continued,  " '  the  lower  grounds' 
are  too  far  distant  from  The  Sands,  for  me,  and  I  wish  to 
come  over  here  and  live  with  you.  You  remember  you  invited 
me  to  come,  a  few  evenings  since  ;  and,  see !  I  have  brought 
some  of  my  things  over.  I  could  not  take  them  all,  because 
I  was  obliged  to  row  a  part  of  the  way.  But  if  we  have  good 
luck  to-day,  we  will  go  over  to  The  Sands,  and  get  the  re 
mainder,  to-morrow  morning.  • 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  on  shore  ?" 

The  brother  and  sister  manifested  their  wishes  that  she 
should  do  so,  in 'very  different  ways. 

The  boy  hastened  down  to  the  boat's  side  by  a  series  of 
summersaults  through  the  water,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  every  time  that  his  head  came  uppermost ;  while  Ives, 
striving  in  vain  to  check  the  tears,  which  seldom,  except  in 
the  moments  of  her  fiercest  anger,  came  to  her  eyes,  kissed 
the  narrow  gold  circlet  upon  her  finger — it  had  been  her 
mother's  wedding  ring — smoothed  with  her  nails  her  tangled 
hair,  and  tried  to  put  into  a  little  better  order  her  untidy 
garments. 

The  contents  of  the  boat,  all  but  the  fishing-tackle,  were 
soon  stored  away  in  the  Dorns'  cabin,  and  a  few  moments 
after,  with  the  trio  on  board,  Brendice's  boat  was  gliding 
over  the  water,  down  towards  the  lower  fishing-grounds,  on 
which  her  father  had  spent  so  many  weary  days  and  nights, 
but  where  she  had  never  yet  been  ;  and  the  boy,  Erie  Dorn, 
very  proud  and  happy,  in  being  allowed  to  steer,  was  describ 
ing  the  waters  to  her,  as  another  lad  might  have  described 
the  features  of  a  very  varied  landscape. 

But  Ives  sat,  very  still  and  thoughtful,  replying  only  in 

15 


338  By  the  Sea. 

monosyllables  to   Brendice,  who   frequently  addressed   her 
with  some  pleasant  remark. 

Now  she  was  looking  down  into  the  placid  sea,  whose  dark 
waters  were  here  and  there  flecked  with  light,  from  the  fleecy 
clouds,  tipped  with  sunbeams,  that  floated  far  away  through 
the  zenith  ;  as,  in  the  web  of  her  dark  thoughts,  were  woven 
many  a  soft  and  silvery  thread  ;  and  now,  when  she  supposed 
the  eyes  of  her  companion  were  averted,  she  was  glancing 
furtively  up  into  Brendice's  face,  and  observing  how  nicely 
the  hair  was  arranged  under  the  narrow-brimmed  hat,  and 
how  neatly  the  coarse,  but  clean  fishing-dress  fitted  to  her 
person. 

Ives  had  noticed,  when  she  last  saw  her,  that  there  had 
been  a  change  in  Brendice's  personal  appearance. 

Now  she  saw  that  there  was  something  new  in  her  face, 
too  ;  and  she  was  wondering,  with  an  undefined,  but  un 
comfortable  feeling,  what  had  happened  to  the  girl,  who 
when  she  had  come  over  to  The  Rocks  the  past  summer, 
Ives  thought,  was  just  like  one  of  the  islanders. 

"How  long  have  you  been  trying  to  be  so  wonderful 
good  ?"  she  asked,  at  length,  in  an  abrupt,  sarcastic  tone. 

"Oh,  not  long!"  said  Brendice,  softly ;  "only  since  that 
night  when  you  told  me  about  your  mother,  and  how  she 
sang  the  sweet,  holy  songs  on  Good  Friday  to  you  and  your 
brother.  How  nice  it  is  that  you  can  remember  about  it 
and  that  she  used  to  pray  you  might  be  good  when  you  grew 
up! 

"  Do  you  know  I  was  only  three  months  old  when  my 
mother  died,  and  never  had  a  brother  or  sister  to  talk  with 
me  about  being  good  ?" 


Out  of  the  Sea.  339 

"No  !"  said  Ives,  more  kindly  ;  "well,  then."  glancing  up 
into  the  thoughtful,  pleasant  face,  "how  did  you  find  out  the 
way  ?  or,"  seeing  that  there  was  a  trace  of  sadness  in  the 
countenance,  for  Ives  was  a  pretty  good  physiognomist,  "  are 
you  not  very  good  yet  ?" 

"  Not  very  good  yet,"  Brendice  replied.  "  Only  trying  to 
be!  And  you  will  tell  me,  and  help  me  about  it,  will  you 
not?  You  have  told  me  something  already." 

"  O  yes !  I  know  all  about  being  good,  and  I  will  help 
you !"  said  Ives,  confidently,  "  only  it  is  pretty  hard  work, 
and  you  will  find  it  so.  I  have  tried  to  be  good  ever  so 
many  times  ;  but  in  a  little  while  I  am  bad  again,  worse 
than  I  was  before ! 

"I  have  got  an  old  book  which  my  mother  used  to  read," 
she  resumed,  after  a  pause,  and  in  a  still  softer  tone,  "  that 
tells  all  about  these  things,  only  I  can't  read  much. 

"  We  have  a  school  here,  two  or  three  months  in  the  year, 
out  we  never  go  to  it.  We  are  too  busy  for  that,  and,  be 
sides,  I,  and  most  of  the  other  large  girls,  do  not  like  to  go 
to  the  school,  the  teacher  who  comes  down  from  the  Port  is 
so  unlike  ourselves.  Erie  and  I  have  forgotten  most  all  that 
our  mother  taught  us.  I  wish  we  could  read,  though !" 

"  Well,  I  can  read,  and  will  teach  you,"  said  Brendice,  "  if 
you  will  help  me  " — 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Erie  ?"  inquired  Ives,  interrupting 
her,  "  and  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

The  boy  had  heard,  and  he  uttered  a  loud  and  prolonged 
shout  of  joy,  much  more,  probably,  to  express  his  satisfaction 
with  the  state  of  things  in  general,  than  with  the  simple  fact 
of  having  an  opportunity  of  learning  to  read. 


34°  By  the  Sea. 

But  Ives  was  very  much  in  earnest ;  and  eacb  time  that 
Brendice  began  to  speak  on  another  subject,  she  would  refer 
to  that,  and  it  was  settled  between  them  before  they  reached 
their  point  of  destination,  that  the  reading  should  commence 
the  ensiling  evening,  after  their  labors  were  finished,  and 
that  one  or  two  girls  of  Ives'  age  should  be  invited  into  the 
Dorns'  cabin,  to  be  taught  too  ;  Ives  reiterating  her  promise 
that  she  would  help  Brendice  to  become  good,  and  silently 
wondering  if  she  had  not,  herself,  better  make  one  more  effort 
in  that  direction. 

As  Brendice  threw  her  line  out  into  the  sea, — how  much 
had  happened  to  her  since  she  had  last  seen  the  lead  sinking 
into  the  water, — she  tried  to  forget  her  dull  heartache,  and  to 
fix  her  thoughts  on  Him,  who,  as  His  form  was  about  to  pass 
away  forever  from  human  sight,  had  said,  on  the  day  of 
which  this  was  commemorative — Monday  in  Easter-week — 
o,  I  am  with  you  alway  •)'  and  prayed  that  the  work  she 
was  about,  humbly,  to  undertake,  might  have  the  Divine 
approval,  and  be  followed  by  the  Divine  blessing  ;  prayed, 
too,  that  she  might  so  skilfully  employ  her  talents,  that  when 
the  Lord  should  call  for  His  own,  she  would  be  able  to 
return  to  Him  those  entrusted  to  her  keeping,  polished 
bright  in  the  using,  and  with  them  the  usury  He  would 
strictly  require. 

While  Brendice's  boat  was  gliding  over  the  water,  and 
she  and  Ives  were  chatting  pleasantly  with  each  other,  Mr. 
Hall,  whose  carriage  was  ready  to  go  down  to  The  Sands  for 
the  purpose  of  bringing  her  up  to  his  house,  was  busily 
engaged  in  writing  the  kind  letter  of  invitation,  which  was 
not  destined  to  be  delivered  to  her. 


Out  of  the  Sea.  341 

Luke  Maitland,  whom  the  old  gentleman  had  made  ac 
quainted  with  his  intentions  in  relation  to  Brendice,  not 
only  excused  himself  from  driving  down  to  The  Sands  after 
her,  but  tried  to  dissuade  Mr.  Hall  from  his  purpose.  The 
reasons  he  offered,  by  no  means  the  most  important  ones 
which  occurred  to  himself,  were,  however,  not  at  all  satisfac 
tory  to  the  old  gentleman. 

He  was  determined,  both  for  the  sake  of  little  Boss,  and 
her  who  had  so  tenderly  cared  for  him,  that  they  should  not 
be  separated  from  each  other  until  his  parents  should  claim 
the  child  ;  and  when  they  returned,  the  poor  girl,  who,  he 
said,  should  never  know  want  again,  would  find,  in  Rachel 
and  her  husband,  a  most  loving  father  and  mother. 

Luke  knew,  for  a  certainty,  that  the  invitation  would  not 
be  accepted  by  Brendice  ;  no  connection  of  his,  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  left  Mr.  Hall,  and  returned  to  the  bedside  of 
his  father,  would  ever  be  regarded  by  Brendice  Du  Bois  in 
the  light  of  a  friend. 

She  could  show  kindness,  but  never  receive  it. 

He  had,  a  moment  before,  been  looking  over  the  morning 
paper,  and  his  eye  fell  on  a  notice  conspicuously  inserted. 
It  was  to  the  effect  that  the  report  in  circulation  the  preced 
ing  autumn  in  regard  to  the  disappearance  of  Mr.  Stephen 
Du  Bois,  who  had  been,  for  the  last  fifteen  years,  a  resident 

of  H ,  was  entirely  without  foundation  ;  he  having 

returned,  after  a  brief  stay  in  New  York,  to  his  native  land. 

Brendice,  he  doubted  not,  had  sent  the  notice  to  the 
publishing  office,  just  as  soon  as  her  father's  letter  had  been 
found  by  her,  lest  the  story  in  relation  to  himself  should  be 
revived. 


342  By  the  Sea. 

Mr.  Maitland  was  just  waking,  when  his  son  re-entered  his 
chamber. 

After  his  brief  conversation  with  Luke,  he  had  been 
unable  to  sleep  at  all  during  the  remainder  of  the  night,  and 
his  bitter  reflections  had  so  much  exhausted  him,  that  the 
half  hour's  slumber  in  the  morning  had  refreshed  him  but  a 
little. 

He  was  lying  in  a  heavy  stupor  when  Euth  Adams  came 
into  the  room,  and  whispered  to  Luke. 

A  lady  had  called  to  see  Mr.  Maitiand.  She  had  sent  up 
her  card. 

The  young  man  glanced  at  it.  It  bore  but  one  word, 
"Marie." 

"  She  is  the  lady  who  brought  the  Easter-flowers  to  him 
yesterday,"  Ruth  said.  "Mrs.  Smith  sent  me  up  herewith 
her.  She  is  a  stranger  in  the  city,  the  housekeeper  says,  but 
I  think  she  knows  your  father,  there  was  such  a  look  on  her 
face  when  she  stood  by  his  bed. 

"  And  when  he  said  something,  I  did  not  notice  what  it 
was,  he  was  talking  in  his  sleep,  I  suppose,  his  eyes  were 
closed,  the  lady  knelt  by  his  bed  and  prayed  very  earnestly,  I 
thought,  but  in  another  language." 

Luke  partially  succeeded  in  arousing  his  father,  and  tried 
to  make  him  understand  that  some  one  wished  to  see  him. 

The  woman  had  sent  up  the  name — Marie  !  She  was  the 
same  who  had  brought  him  the  Easter-flowers  the  preceding 
evening. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  it  was  little  Marie  who  came  to  me !"  he 
said,  dreamily,  and  then  his  thoughts  began  to  wander. 

"  She  was  a  little  French  girl,  but  she  had  relatives  in  Italy. 


Out  of  the  Sea.  343 

It  was  there  I  saw  her.  She  was  visiting  an  uncle.  He  was 
my  employer.  He  was  very  wealthy,  and  she  was  to  be  his 
heir,  and  take  his  name.  She  will  be  now,  if  her  uncle  is  not 
living,  Maria  di  Leuca. — Little  Marie !  Yes,  tell  her  to  come 
to  me,  Luke !  I  would  like  to  see  the  sweet  child." 

Maria  di  Luca !     Luke  remembered  that  name. 

He  had  many  times  heard  it  spoken  with  words  of  earnest 
blessing  by  his  uncle  and  aunt  in  Italy  ;  and  he  hastened 
from  the  apartment,  preceded,  down  the  stairway,  by  little 
Ruth,  to  conduct  the  stranger  to  his  father's  bedside.  The 
lady's  back  was  towards  him  as  he  drew  near  her,  and  her 
veil  had  fallen  over  her  face. 

"  My  father — Mr.  Maitland — will  be  pleased  to  see  you !" 
he  said,  "  and,  madam,  if  you  are  the  lady  he  supposes  you 
to  be,  permit  me  to  express  the  deep  gratitude  we  owe  you 
for  the  disinterested  kindness  you  showed  to  our  nearest 
friends — George  and  Rachel  Aden,  in  the  hour  of  their  great 
need.  He  calls  you  Signora  di_Leuca!" 

"  That  is  the  name  I  have  lately  borne,"  said  the  lady,  in  a 
sweet,  musical  voice,  and  it  struck  the  young  man  that  there 
was  something  familiar  in  the  tone  ;  but  when  she  raised  her 
veil,  and  turned  her  face  towards  him,  he  was  sure  he  had 
never  seen  those  features  before.  He  had  never  looked  on 
anything  half  as  lovely  as  was  that  countenance. 

Brendice  Du  Bois  was  very  beautiful ;  but  this  face,  how 
strange  it  was,  he  thought,  that  he  should  be  comparing  the 
two  countenances, — this  face,  now  in  its  full  maturity,  had 
something  in  its  expression,  far  transcending,  in  loveliness, 
its  really  wonderful  beauty — a  sweetness  and  joy  was  there, 
such  as  one  might  almost  believe  the  angels  wear. 


344  - 

"  You  have  spoken  the  name  I  have  been  called  by,"  the 
lady  said,  "  but  within  the  hour  I  have  taken  another  name — 
that  of  my  husband !"  and  she  put  a  paper  into  the  young 
man's  hand,  and  pointed  to  a  particular  paragraph. 

"  Just  married  !"  Luke  thought. 

Rachel  Aden  had  told  him  that  the  lady  had  no  husband, 
and  as  he  was  conducting  her  to  his  father's  presence,  he 
hoped  that  the  lovely  woman  might  find  as  much  happiness 
in  the  life  before  her,  as  in  this  hour  of  her  deep  joy  she  was 
looking  forward  to. 

He  did  not  glance  at  the  paper  she  had  given  him,  until 
after  he  had  returned  to  the  sick  chamber,  the  door  of  which 
the  lady  closed  behind  her,  as  soon  as  she  was  within  the 
room  ;  but  as  she  drew  near  the  bedside,  he  sought  the  lines 
she  had  pointed  out,  that  he  might  mention  her  new  name 
to  his  father. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  the  pale,  worn  face  of  the  sufferer,  so 
earnestly,  that  she  did  not  notice  the  sudden  emotion  of  the 
Aoung  man  ;  but  Mr.  Maitland,  stupefied  as  were  his  senses, 
heard  the  fervent  "Thank  God!"  which  his  son  uttered  ;  and 
looking  up,  he  saw  Luke  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  while  tears 
were  dropping  from  his  eyes.  He  was  not  sufficiently  aroused, 
however,  to  wonder  at  the  cause  of  such  deep  feeling. 

He  was  trying  to  lift  his  eyes  to  the  female  figure  beside 
him,  but  the  heavy  lids  drooped  again. 

"  Little  Marie,"  he  said,  feebly,  "  the  sweet,  child  face 
which,  so  long  ago,  looked  pityingly  on  the  sick,  sad  stranger, 
has  never  been  forgotten  by  me.  I  have  remembered  it  as 
the  face  of  an  angel.  Has  the  hjly,  blcssad  Life  you  desired, 
been  given  to  you  ? 


Out  of  the  Sea.  346 

"  The  earthly  existence  you  prayed  might  be  mine,  has  been 
a  curse  to  nie  and  to  those  it  should  have  rendered  happy ! — 
that  life  has  been  continued  in  crime  and  sorrow  ;  its  end 
must  be  despair !" 

"  Father — dear  father !"  Luke  exclaimed,  coming  forward, 
and  bending  over  him,  "  look  up,  and  try  to  comprehend  the 
great  joy  this  lady's  presence  brings  to  us ! 

"The  past  is  not  the  dark  night  you  think  it  is.  The 
future  will  be  all  brightness  to  you,  and  to  me. 

"  Look  up,  dear  father !  The  terrible  crime  you  believed 
yourself  guilty  of,  was  not  commited,  for  " — 

His  utterance  was  almost  choked,  but  Mr.  Maitland  was  ' 
fully  aroused  now. 

"This  lady  is  Madame  Du  Bois,  the  mother  of  Brendice !" 

The  sick  man's  eyes  fastened  on  the  face  which  he  had 
believed,  the  evening  previous,  he  only  fancied  was  bending 
over  him.  He  would  have  thought,  at  the  present  moment, 
that  his  reason  was  gone,  but  the  lady's  fingers  were  resting 
on  his  hand, — the  right  hand,  which  seemed,  long  ago,  to 
have  her  life  in  its  hold,  and  whose  hold  was  loosened ! — the 
hand  so  palsied  now  that  it  had  lain,  for  days,  apparently 
lifeless  at  his  side  ;  and  a  thrill,  as  if  it  had  been  an  electric 
touch,  ran  through  his  whole  frame. 

"  Yesterday,  at  this  hour,"  the  lady  said,  "  I  believed  my 
self,  as  I  have  long  done,  childless,  and  a  widow,  and  you,  I 
thought,  had  bereaved  me  ;  and  my  anguished  life  has  been 
spent  in  alternately  striving  to  be  resigned  to  the  loss  of 
what  seemed  to  me  all  my  earthly  good,  and  in  seeking  to 
find  the  author  of  my  misery. 

"I  knew  who  you  were,  Philip  Maitland,  when  we  stood 

15* 


346  By  the  Sea. 

beside  each  other  on  the  deck  of  that  ill-fated  ship.  I  re 
collected  the  face  I  had  seen  ten  years  previous,  and  the 
name  of  the  one  to  whom  my  uncle  sent  me  with  flowers,  on 
Easter-day ;  and  when  I  stood,  not  many  months  since,  at 
the  sick-bed  of  your  brother — though  this  I  did  not  then 
know — the  sound  of  your  name,  whispered  at  a  moment 
when  his  reason  was  quite  gone,  reached  my  ear. 

"He  coupled  your  name  with  that  of  his  child,  and  his 
wife  had  told  me  to  what  place  her  babe  had  been  sent. 

"  I  prayed  Heaven  that  the  distance  which  separated  you 
and  me  might  never  be  lessened ;  but  in  spite  of  my  best 
endeavor,  rather  guided  by  an  All-merciful  hand,  I  found 
myself  near  you  at  last.  Your  name  and  the  account  of  the 
calamity  which  had  befallen  you,  were  the  first  words  which 
reached  me  on  my  arrival  in  this  city  ;  and  I  thought  that 
He  who,  alone,  could  understand  how  I  had  striven  against 
my  evil  thoughts,  had  become  my  Avenger  !  and  yesterday, 
at  the  children's  pleasant  festival,  I  tried  to  thank  Him  that 
finally  I  was  delivered  from  temptation  ;  and  thought  that, 
to-day,  I  would  prepare  for  a  return  to  my  native  land,  and 
strive  to  forget  the  past  ;  and  while  offering  up  a  thanks 
giving  that  the  struggle  with  myself  was,  as  I  trusted,  over, 
I  heard  a  name  spoken — the  name  of  my  child !  and  when 
the  assembly  had  left  the  church,  for  my  heart  was  too .  full 
of  hope  and  fear  for  an  immediate  departure  from  it,  I  sought 
the  rector  to  make  inquiries  respecting  her  whose  name  I 
had  listened  to. 

"  He  told  me  what  he  had  heard  of  Brendice  Du  Bois,  from 
an  old  gentleman  who  had  known  her  for  some  months  past, 
and  he  showed  me  a  valuable  diamond  which  the  child 


Out  of  the  Sea.  347 

who  had  been  in  her  care  had  presented  for  an  Easter-offer 
ing.  . 

"  The  diamond  was  my  own.  The  broken  chasing  still 
bore  the  initials  of  my  husband  and  myself. 

"  The  gentleman  was  certain  its  value  could  not  have  been 
known  by  the  real  donor  ;  but  it  was  a  simple  thank-offering 
to  be  returned  for  the  great  joy  which  had  come  to  me  in 
that  church. 

"  There  was  a  wish  in  my  heart,  then,  to  look  on  your  face, 
Philip  Maitland! 

"  I  would  see  one  of  the  shadows  I  had  thought  resting  so 
heavily  upon  you,  fallen  away  ;  and  when  I  stood  here  last 
evening,  and  heard  you,  half  insanely,  whisper  my  childhood's 
name,  and  murmur  a  prayer  for  me,  I  called  the  past,  dead, 
and  drew  a  heavy  shroud  over  it,  and  laid  the  sweet  Easter- 
flowers  above  its  bier ! 

"  To-day  a  new  joy  has  come  to  me.  My  husband,  too,  is 
living !  and  " — her  fingers  fastened  themselves  closely  to  the 
cold  hand,  "  may  Heaven  forgive  your  intended  crime,  freely 
as  I  forgive  you  for  all  you  have  caused  me  to  suffer !" 

Brendice's  boat  came  in  early  that  night. 

She  and  the  Dorns  had  had  very  good  success  for  the  time 
they  had  been  out,  and  Ives  and  her  brother,  singing  their 
choicest  songs  in  the  cheeriest  of  voices,  steered  the  boat  up 
between  the  jutting  rocks,  where  their  own  had  always  come 
in  before,  and  laughed  at  the  surprise  of  Mother  Hobart,  who 
really  had  intended  to  use  Ives'  boat  only  for  the  day,  just 
to  punish  her. 

The  old  fish-woman  had  a  heart  once,  and  it  was  not  quite 


348  By  the  Sea. 

dead  yet ;  and  after  giving  scarcely  more  than  half  the  avails 
of  her  day's  labor  in  charge  of  one  of  her  boys,  she  was 
trying  to  run  the  boat  into  its  accustomed  place,  when  Ives 
and  Erie,  with  merry  laughter,  and  an  "Off  with  you,  old 
sea-gull !"  shot  past  her  into  the  little  inlet. 

The  care  of  the  fish  was  left  to  the  boy,  and  Ives  and 
Brendice  prepared  the  simple  evening  repast,  and  tried  to 
make  the  rude  cabin,  scarcely  more  uncomfortable  and  untidy 
than  that  of  Brendice  had  formerly  been,  a  little  more 
orderly  and  neat,  while  they  amused  themselves  with  planning 
what  they  would  shortly  do  for  its  improvement. 

After  the  labors  of  the  toilet,  which  comprised  only  the 
good  scrubbing  of  a  really  pleasant  face,  and  the  combing, 
though  that  was  rather  a  serious  affair,  of  the  thick,  curling 
hair,  had  been  performed  by  Ives,  the  girl  ran  out  to  find  her 
young  companions,  and  tell  them  about  Brendice — that  she 
was  nothing  but  a  fish-girl  like  themselves,  only  she  knew  ever 
so  much,  and  could  be  coaxed,  Ives  knew,  not  only  to  teach 
them  to  read  much  better  than  they  could,  at  present,  but  to 
tell  them  about  many  other  things — and  to  invite  them  over 
to  her  cabin  that  evening. 

She  was  absent  some  time,  for  the  girls,  willing  to  return 
with  her  to  see  the  stranger,  as  soon  as  their  labors  were 
ended,  were  obliged,  the  most  of  them,  first  to  bathe  and 
comb  their  hair  ;  and  Brendice,  with  the  fish-dress  laid  aside, 
and  attired  now  very  simply,  but  neatly,  had  gone  down  to 
the  edge  of  the  water,  and  was  sitting  on  a  high  boulder, 
looking  away  over  the  peaceful  waves,  into  the  crimsoning 
west,  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  young  girls  and  Erie 
Dorn. 


Out  of  the  Sea.  349 

Many  dark  and  painful  thoughts  were  striving  to  enter  her 
mind,  as  she  sat  there,  but  she  resolutely  put  them  from  her, 
and  turned  to  the  Lesson  for  the  evening  ;  and  her  lips 
murmured  the  words  again  and  again  : 

"  Abide  with  us,  for  it  is  toward  evening ;  and  the  day  is 
far  spent!" 

And  a  promise  had  been  made,  long  ago,  by  Him  whose 
word  is  forever  unfailing  : 

"  At  evening-time  it  shall  be  light !" 

The  few  fond  hopes  she  had  ever  dared  to  cherish,  were  all 
dead  now.  The  life  of-  the  dearest  had  been  crushed  out  by 
her  own  hand,  but  its  destruction  was  none  the  less  agonizing 
to  her  for  that.  All  dead  now ! 

They  had  passed  away  like  the  dreams  of  her  early  child 
hood,  when  she  had  stood  on  that  topmost  height  of  the 
ledge,  and  looked  away  into  the  sen,  and  waited  for  her 
beautiful  mother  to  come  up  out  of  its  depths. 

The  fishing-boats  were  coming  in  slowly. 

One  or  two  were  running  down  from  the  Port,  where  the 
red  beacon-light  was  just  faintly  seen,  mingling  with  the  last 
rays  of  the  sinking  sun. 

And  now  the  Convoy  sent  out  its  clear,  white  light. 

Jerry  Greyson  was  at  the  lighthouse,  as  keeper,  for  the 
time,  and  Brendice  had  been  told  by  Mrs.  Adams,  the  pre 
ceding  evening,  that  most  likely  he  would  remain  there  ;  as 
letters,  strongly  recommending  him  for  the  post,  had 
already  been  mailed  for  Washington  ;  and  then  Sally  Jones 
would  have  another  offer  of  marriage,  which,  this  time,  she 
would  accept. 

Brendice  had  said  this  to  Miss  Jones  that  very  morning, 


3$o  By  the  Sea. 

for  the  woman  liad  come  into  her  cabin,  just  as  she  was 
quitting  it  to  go  over  to  The  Kocks,  and  Sally,  though  she 
had  tossed  her  head  scornfully,  blushed  like  a  young  girl. 

Brendice  was  thinking  of  this  now,  with  pleasure,  for  the 
woman  was  her  firm  friend.  Notwithstanding  her  un 
interesting  exterior,  she  had  a  fund  of  sound  sense,  and  the 
girl  would  have  a  good  coadjutor  in  the  work  she  con 
templated,  and  of  which  she  had  spoken  to  Miss  Jones, 
briefly  but  very  earnestly. 

Her  words  had  surprised  her  auditor  much  ;  but  after  a 
thoughtful  pause,  Sally  had  taken  her  hand,  and  said,  huskily, 
that  Brendice  might  rely  on  her  ready  assistance  whenever 
she  needed  it. 

There  was  another  boat  coming  over,  apparently  from  The 
Sands.  She  did  not  gaze  at  it  particularly,  though  it  was 
quite  near.  Probably,  she  thought,  its  occupants  were  going 
to  the  Convoy  to  see  Greyson  ;  and  not  wishing  to  be  re 
cognized  by  them,  for  the  boat  seemed  likely  to  pass  very 
noar  the  island,  at  the  point  where  she  was  sitting,  Bren 
dice  turned  away,  and  was  looking  up  the  path  Ives  had 
taken  in  search  of  her  young  companions. 

The  girls  were  not  yet  within  sight,  and  her  eyes  again  fell 
upon  the  book  lying  in  her  lap. 

"Abide  with  us!" 

How  long  it  might  be,  ere  the  lengthened  day  before  her 
was  "  far  spent "!  and  yet  every  one  of  its  hours  would  be 
given  by  the  Lord,  for  the  earnest  working,  and  the  patient 
waiting. 

But,  at  length,  the  night  must  come ! 

Her  thoughts  rested  there,  at  the  termination  of  the  day 


Out  of  the  Sea.  361 

of  life ;  when  the  once  strong  hand  should  feebly  end  its 
allotted  tasks,  when  the  tired  ear  should  listen  only  to 
blending  sounds,  and  the  curtain  thicken  before  the  eyes  ; 
when  human  companionship  should  depart,  and  the  stranger 
come  in  to  tarry  :  and  then  her  lips  began  to  move  in  simple 
rhymes  : 

"  Be  patient,  my  soul,  there's  another  sphere, 

For  the  earnest,  unwearying  toiler  here  ; 

The  deafening  ear,  and  the  dimming  eyes 

Shall  ope  at  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

' '  So  wait  I,  and  watch,  while  sitting  alone, 
And  the  echoes  are  coming  in  deepening  tone  ; 
For  the  welcome  roll  of  the  mightier  sea, 
Which  shall  bear  me  away  to  Eternity." 

A  footfall  upon  the  rocks  attracted  her  attention,  and  a 
moment  after,  some  one  spoke;  but  a  sudden  surprise,  almost 
fear,  seemed  so  to  deaden  her  senses,  that  when  she  turned 
and  lifted  her  eyes,  she  hardly  knew  whether  it  was  Luke 
Maitland,  or  not,  who  was  bending  over  her,  and  she  only 
caught  his  closing  words,  so  softly,  but  eagerly  uttered  : 

— "  up,  out  of  the  sea,  Brendice  !" 

And  then  her  eyes  rested  on  another  face,  the  face  of 
a  beautiful  woman  ;  and  the  woman  said  : 

"My  child!"  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  bewildered  head, 
and  murmured  some  words  of  deep  thankfulness. 

Her  thoughts  came  then,  and  Brendice  knew  that  it  was 
her  mother  who  had  sat  down  by  her  side,  whose  arms  were 
folding  themselves  about  her, — her  mother,  on  whose  breast 
her  head  was  resting,  into  whose  face,  so  long  waited  for,  she 
was  at  length  gazing. 

She  was  speaking  the  dear  word  over  and  over  ;  it  seemed 


352  By  the  Sea. 

to  her  expressive  of   all  she  wished   to   say,  and   she    felt 
herself  more  a  child  than  she  had  ever  been  before. 

"  Mother  !  come  up,  at  length,  out  of  the  sea !" 

That  was  what  Luke  had  just  said ;  and  then  other 
thoughts  presented  themselves  to  her,  and  she  turned  her 
eyes  towards  the  young  man. 

He  had  withdrawn  to  a  little  distance,  and  was  now  slowly 
walking  up  and  down  the  short  stretch  of  sandy  beach,  with 
varied,  conflicting  emotions,  which  Brendice  readily  enough 
understood,  described  on  his  fair,  open  countenance. 

Her  mother  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and  she 
drew  her  daughter  more  closely  to  her,  and  whispered  a 
question.  It  was  one  in  which  the  lady  felt  the  deepest  in 
terest,  though  it  was  very  quietly  spoken. 

Brendice  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  into  her  mother's 
face  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  spoke  in  French,  very 
briefly,  but  very  eloquently,  it  seemed,  by  the  expression 
which  came  over  the  features  of  the  elder  lady. 

When  she  ceased,  she  drew  a  letter  from  her  bosom,  her 
father's  letter,  which  she  had  carefully  re-sealed  the  preced 
ing  evening,  after  its  second  perusal,  and  put  it  into  her 
mother's  hand.  She  had  thought  that  seal  would  never 
again  be  broken  ;  at  least  not  until  years  had  passed  away 
would  she  trust  herself  to  read  those  pages,  though  the 
precious  words  must  always  be  near  her.  The  lady  opened 
it,  and  her  eyes  rested  on  the  writing,  but  it  was  some 
moments  before  she  could  think  of  anything  except  that  it 
was  only  a  few  months  since  those  lines  were  penned  by  the 
husband,  whose  supposed  death  she  had  been  mourning  over 
for  so  many  long  years. 


O^tt  of  the  Sea.  363 

After  her  escape  from  death,  which  seemed  to  her  almost 
miraculous,  she  had  uot  returned  to  her  former  home  in 
France,  nor,  for  months,  to  her  uncle  in  Italy.  She  and  a 
young  sailor,  to  whom  she  owed  the  immediate  preserva 
tion  of  her  life,  were  found  clinging  to  a  spar,  some  hours 
after  the  burning  of  the  ship,  and  were  picked  up  by  a 
passing  vessel,  bound  to  an  English  port. 

In  the  published  detail  of  the  loss  of  the  ship,  the  name  of 
her  husband  did  not  appear  in  the  list  of  the  rescued  ;  on 
'the  contrary,  the  account  Mr.  Maitland  had  given  his  wife 
of  the  finding  of  the  lifeless  and  charred  body,  supposed  to 
be  that  of  Du  Bois,  floating  upon  the  water,  had  met  her  eye. 

Her  own  escape,  and  that  of  the  young  sailor,  from  death, 
was  told  by  the  newspapers,  simply  as,  "  Two  persons 
saved  /"  Her  marriage  had  taken  place  without  the  knowl 
edge  of  her  uncle,  who  had  other  views  for  her  ;  and  it  was 
not  until  some  time  after  she  had  returned  to  him,  that  she  in 
formed  him  of  the  sad  episode  in  her  life.  She  had,  how 
ever,  never  mentioned  to  him  or  to  any  other  parson,  the 
name  of  Mr.  Maitland.  Her  uncle  had  wished  that  the 
image  of  her  husband  should  drop  out  from  her  memory, 
and  for  that  reason  he  had  dissuaded  her  from  holding 
intercourse  with  her  friends  in  France  ;  and  he  never  made 
reference  to  her  married  life,  or  called  her  by  her  husband's 
name  ;  and  in  gratitude  for  his  love  and  kindness,  she  had 
tried  to  bury  her  grief  in  her  heart,  and  answered  to  the 
name  he  gave  her. 

"When  Madame  Du  Bois  had  read  the  letter  and  returned  it 
to  her  daughter,  she  spoke  only  of  the  diamond  to  which 
reference  had  been  made.  Was  it  that  which  the  little  boy, 


3.54  By  the  Sea. 

latsly  tinder  her  care,  had  taken  to  St.  Mary's  for  an 
Easter-offering  ?  Brendice  supposed  that  it  must  be,  though 
she  had  not,  at  the  time  he  took  it  to  the  church,  any  idea  of 
its  value.  She  had  not,  in  fact,  seen  it. 

It  must  have  fallen  among  his  playthings,  accidentally  ; 
and  she  had  supposed,  when  his  young  friend  was  so  anxious 
he  should  carry  it  to  church  for  an  offering,  that  it  was 
nothing  but  a  shining  pebble. 

If  her  mother  was  willing,  however,  she  would  be  very 
glad  that  the  offering  should  be,  indeed,  made  to  the  Lord. 

Madame  Du  Bois  said  that  it  was  her  own  wish,  only  her 
daughter  must  specify  for  what  religious  purpose  its  avails 
should  be  employed. 

Brendice  expressed  her  deep  thanks. 

She  had  couie  over  to  the  islands,  she  said,  to  make  bar 
home  there,  and  to  endeavor,  in  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  way,  to 
do  good  to  the  young  people  who  would  be  her  associates; 
and  especially  to  one  poor  girl,  motherless,  as  she  had 
supposed  herself  to  be. 

She  had  thought  that,  in  a  few  days,  she  would  go  up  to 
the  Port,  and  call  on  the  Rector  of  St.  Mary's,  and  tell  him 
that  the  diamond  had  been  the  gift  of  her  father  to  her,  and 
that  she  was  thankful  it  had  been  an  Easter-offering,  and  ask 
him  if  the  sum,  or  a  part  of  it,  which  would  be  realized  by  its 
sale,  might  be  employed  for  the  benefit  of  the  people  at  The 
Eocks. 

"I  have  been  planning  a  great  deal,"  she  interrupted 
herself,  with  a  smile,  "  but  it  will  not  cost  much  besides  labor 
to  do  all  I  wish.  They  will  help  themselves,  when  once  they 
have  become  interested." 


Out  of  the  Sea.  355 

"What  you  wish  shall  be  done!"  her  mother  replied,  "but 
there  is  no  work  here  for  you,  my  child !  Your  business  in 
life,  henceforth,  is  to  make  your  parents  and  this  young 
man,  who  has  told  me  that  he  loves  you,  happy !" 

The  lady  turned  towards  Luke  Maitland. 

His  eager  glance  read  her  decision  in  relation  to  himself, 
in  her  face,  and  he  drew  near  the:n,  and  held  Brendice's 
hand  in  his  for  a  moment,  and  then  walked  quickly  down  to 
the  boat,  to  prepare  for  an  immediate  return  to  the  main 
land. 

The  daylight  was  fading  now,  and  the  evening  air,  though 
very  mild  for  the  season,  was  becoming  uncomfortably  cool 
for  one  less  hardy  than  those  young  fishers. 

Ives  Dorn  had,  some  moments  previous,  appeared  in  sight, 
with  half  a  dozen  of  her  youthful  companions. 

They  had  come  bounding  down  over  the  rocks,  like  a 
troop  of  young  kids;  bat  halted  very  suddenly  and  timidly, 
when  they  obssrved  the  strangers.  They  had  seen  Brendice 
before,  but  her  appearance  had  wonderfully  changed  since 
she  had  come  over  to  The  Bocks  the  previous  summer  ;  and 
Ives,  seeing  the  lady's  arms  around  her,  and  the  happy  smiles 
on  Brendice's  face,  began  to  feel  very  ill  at  ease,  very  envious, 
though  she  did  not  know  why,  and  very  angry.  But  when 
Brendice  went  to  her  side  and  told  her,  with  the  tears  which 
now,  for  the  first  tima,  began  to  flaw,  of  the  great  happiness 
which  had  just  coma  to  her,  Ives  forgot  herself,  and  softly 
wept  with  her,  and  said  how  glad  she  was  that  Brendice  had 
somebody  to  tell  her  how  to  be  good  ;  and  she  aud  the  girls 
would  run  up  to  the  cabin,  and  fetch  down  all  of  the  things 
brought  over  from  The  Sands  that  morning,  and  get  the  boat 


356  By  the  Sea. 

ready  for  her ;  and  did  she  not  want  some  of  the  fish  they 
had  caught? 

No,  Brendice  did  not  want  the  fish,  or  the  boat,  or  any  of 
the  things  it  had  brought  over.  They  were  all  for  Ives  and 
Erie.  The  boat  was  already  her  own  for  helping  Brendice 
row  it  over  to  The  Sands  on  the  morning  of  Good  Friday, 
when  she  was  so  tired. 

Ives — and  her  young  companions  seemed  disposed  to 
participate  in  her  joy, — was  made  still  more  happy  by  being 
told  that  her  friend  was  coming  over  to  The  Rocks  in  a  very 
few  days,  to  talk  with  her  and  the  other  girls  about  some 
thing  in  which  she  knew  they  would  be  interested;  and  when 
Luke's  boat  was  again  gliding  over  the  water,  in  the  soft 
moonlight,  a  chorus  of  young  voices  rose  up  from  the  high 
rocks  that  jutted  out  into  the  sea,  in  an  old,  quaint  melody. 

The  occupants  of  the  boat,  silent  in  their  deep  happiness, 
listened  to  the  music,  which  became  sweeter  and  sweeter  as 
the  distance  widened,  and  more  and  more  plaintive,  till  it 
was  lost  in  the  roll  of  the  ocean,  and  the  soft  whispering  of 
the  evening  air. 


CHAPTER    XXY. 


AFTER    TWO    YEARS. 

WO  years  had  passed  since  the  cold,  blustering 
night  when  Mr.  Hall  had  called  the  people  whose 
houses  were  at,  or  near  The  Sands,  aroxind  the 
Christmas-tree;  and  the  same  company,  with  few  losses  and 
many  additions,  were  gathered  again  at  what  had  then  been 
called  the  Ocean  House. 

The  dwelling  was  now  a  private  residence,  though 
probably,  in  the  future,  it  would  be  occupied  only  during  the 
warm  season. 

Its  present  owner  was  Luke  Maitland. 

It  had  been  purchased,  a  year  and  a  half  before,  by  Madame 
Du  Bois  ;  and  though  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adams  contiuued  to 
occupy  the  house  for  some  months  subsequent  to  its  sale,  its 
purchaser  had  some  alterations  early  made  within  it. 

Among  them  was  the  removal  of  the  partition  between  two 
of  the  chambers,  ostensibly  for  the  better  accommodation  of 
the  lady  and  her  daughter,  who  were  boarders  in  the  house. 

Luke  Maitland  had   suggested   this   alteration,  and   had 

superintended  the  slight  job;  and  no  one  but  himself  and  his 

(357) 


358  By  the  Sea. 

father  knew  what  was  found  within  the  wall ;  but  Monsieur 
Da  BoiSj  in  the  second  letter  received  from  his  wife,  for  she 
knew  to  what  part  of  his  native  land  he  must  have  returned, 
was  informed  that  the  greater  part  of  their  wealth,  which 
she  had  supposed  forever  lost  to  them,  was  now  in  her 
possession. 

This  Christmas  Eve  was  a  very  mild  and  pleasant  one, — so 
mild  and  pleasant  that  Mr.  Hall  had  come  down  from  his 
home,  to  take  part  in  the  festivities. 

He  was  not  the  host,  this  evening,  however,  only  the  guest, 
greatly  loved  and  honored  by  all  who  were  there. 

Brendice,  the  bride  of  two  days,  and  Luke  Maitland,  her 
husband,  received  the  company, — a  very  beautiful  and  charm 
ing  hostess,  and  a  very  well  satisfied  host ;  for  the  seemingly 
incongruous  elements  which  Brendice  had  brought  together, 
were  harmonizing  wonderfully  well. 

The  addition  to  the  party  were  a  score  or  more  of  people 

from  N ,  highly  educated  and  refined,  recently-formed 

acquaintances  of  the  fair  bride  ;  and  a  bevy  of  young  girls, 
quite  as  much  cared  for,  and  honored  by  her,  as  were  any  of 
the  party. 

These  latter  were  shy,  timid  things.  They  might  have  been 
thought  bashful  and  awkward,  but  for  the  interest  their 
hostess  took  in  them,  and  the  good  management  of  Mrs. 
Jerry  Grey  son,  formerly  Miss  Sally  Jones,  who  was  always 
perfectly  self-possessed. 

These  girls  were  from  The  Rocks. 

William  Jones  had  brought  them  and  his  aunt,  who  con 
sidered  herself  their  chaperone,  over  to  the  Christmas  fes 
tival  ;  and  from  the  furtive  glances  which  were  exchanged 


After  two  Years.  369 

between  the  young  man  and  the  prettiest  of  these  girls — 
Ives  Dorn — one  might  have  supposed  he  had  quite  forgotten 
the  preference  he  formerly  felt  for  Brendice  Du  Bois. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  observe  the  affection  which  existed 
between  Brendice  and  these  young  girls  ;  particularly  so,  to 
Mr.  Hall. 

Madame  Du  Bois  had  told  her  daughter  it  must  be  only  by 
the  expenditure  of  a  sum  of  money,  employed,  however,  as 
she  saw  fit,  that  she  could  carry  out  her  wish  in  relation  to 
these  young  islanders  ;  but  when  she  saw  how  happy  it  would 
make  Brendice  to  follow,  in  part,  her  original  design,  she 
suffered  her  to  do  as  she  pleased.  Consequently,  on  every 
Saturday  afternoon  of  the  lady's  first  summer  at  The  Sands, 
when  the  weather  was  favorable,  Brendice  took  a  light  boat 
and  went  over  to  The  Rocks  ;  sometimes  alone  with  two 
young  fisher-lads,  and  sometimes  accompanied  by  Ruth 
Adams.  The  night  would  be  spent  with  Mrs.  Greyson,  and 
the  next  day  with  the  girls,  who,  one  after  another,  willingly 
relinquished,  and  were  allowed  by  their  parents  to  do  so, 
their  accustomed  amusements  and  labors,  on  the  Sabbath. 

The  past  summer  she  had  only  made  an  occasional  week 
day  visit  to  them ;  for  Mrs.  Greyson,  and  the  good,  sensible 
young  woman  employed  as  school-teacher,  managed  the 
Sunday-school ;  and  religious  services  were  held,  once  in  two 
weeks,  in  the  little  church,  large  enough,  however,  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  islanders,  which  had  been  built  by  the 
Easter-offering  of  Ross  Aden. 

Mr.  Hall  had  been  the  purchaser  of  the  diamond  ;  and  on 
this  Christmas  Eve  he  had  presented  it  to  the  young  bride, 
nicely  re-set,  for  a  wedding  gift. 


360  By  the  Sea. 

Aside  from  its  intrinsic  value,  it  would  be  to  Brendice, 
al  ways,  a  most  highly  prized  treasure  ;  not  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  donor,  whose  words,  uttered  two  years  before,  had 
forced  her  thoughts  into  a  channel  from  which  she  had  always 
striven  to  hold  them  back,  but  because  it  was  through  this 
Easter-offering  that  all  her  present  joy  had  found  its  way  to 
her — her  father,  her  mother,  and  her  husband  ;  and,  by  its 
agency,  their  happiness  had  been  effected. 

Brendice,  and  her  father,  who  on  the  receipt  of  his  wife's 
letters  was  obliged  to  go  to  Italy  to  attend  to  some  affairs 
connected  with  the  estate  recently  inherited  by  her,  and  had 

quite  lately  returned  to  H ,  were  looking  at  the  jewel,  and 

walking  slowly  through  one  of  the  least  crowded  of  the  rooms. 

Though  Brendice  knew  where  she  was  leading  him,  he,  in 
listening  to  her  words,  did  not  observe  whom  they  were 
approaching,  till  she  withdrew  her  arm  from  his,  and  hastened 
away  to  meet  the  little  fellow  who  had  slipped  from  the  fond 
arm  that  encircled  him,  to  whisper  to  her  that  though  he  was 
"Papa's  son,  and  mother's  own  darling,"  he  was  "nobody's 
little  boy  but  Brendice's !" 

And  then  Du  Bois  found  himself  beside  Philip  Maitland, 
who,  leaning  heavily  upon  a  cane,  stood  looking,  attentively, 
at  a  painting  on  the  wall. 

It  was  a  moonlight  scene  which  was  before  him. 

In  the  foreground,  on  alow  couch,  lay  a  woman,  whose 
arms  were  peacefully  folded  upon  her  breast,  and  whose 
mart le- like  brow,  and  closed,  white  lips,  seemed  to  have  been 
just  touched  by  the  holy  chrism  ;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
were  the  faint,  dim  outlines  of  a  female  figure,  kneeling  upon 
the  floor. 


After  two   Years.  361 

Outside  the  open  window  and  leaning  against  the  sill,  was 
a  young  man,  holding  a  child  tenderly  in  his  arms.  The 
ocean  was  beyond,  and  the  dark  line  in  the  distance  was  The 
Rocks. 

Mr.  Maitland  was  looking  only  at  the  dead. 

That  face,  he  thought,  was  more  beautiful  than  ever,  in  its 
last  repose. 

" Heaven  bless  the  noble  and  gifted  girl!"  he  said.  "She 
completed  this  painting  for  me,  George !" 

He  turned  his  head  as  he  spoke.  It  was  not  his  brother 
who  stood  beside  him,  but  Du  Bois. 

The  two  men  had  not  met  before  since  the  Frenchman's 
return ;  and  for  a  moment,  each  looked  silently  into  the 
other's  face. 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Hall  came  through  the  open  door.  He 
was  talking  to  the  young  people  gathered  around  the 
Christmas-tree,  and  they  were  listening  attentively,  for  his 
words  were  always  very  pleasant,  even  to  them. 

He  was  telling  them  about  the  Vineyard  of  the  Lord ;  and 
when  some  old  people,  attracted  by  his  remarks,  drew  near, 
he  began  to  say  how  readily  the  Master  accepted  service,  at 
whatever  time  in  the  day  it  was  offered ;  and  how  surely  the 
promised  wages  would  be  paid  to  all  who  wrought  faithfully, 
even  though  they  came  at  the  eleventh  hour. 

"  But  it  never  has  been  said  by  our  Lord,"  added  the  old 
gentleman,  solemnly,  "that  he  shall  receive  a  reward  who 
has  not  labored  at  all  in  the  Vineyard!" 

These  words,  uttered  in  a  somewhat  louder  tone,  reached 
the  ears  of  the  two  men  ;  and  Du  Bois,  remembering  how 
much  had  been  forgiven  him,  how  lovingly  his  daughter  had 

16 


362  By  the  Sea. 

met  "him  on  bis  return,  how  kindly  she  had  avoided  his  every 
allusion  to  the  painful  past,  took  up  the  old  gentleman's 
idea. 

"  And  we  can  never  truly  enter  into  the  Vineyard  of  the 
Lord,"  he  said,  "  until  we  are  ready  to  pray  in  sincerity — 
'And  forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who 
trespass  against  us  !' " 

And  he  took  the  still  feeble  hand  of  Mr.  Maitland,  and 
held  it,  for  a  full  minute,  in  his  firm  clasp. 

Both  Brendice  and  Luke  saw  and  heard  what  passed 
between  the  two  men  ;  and  to  hide  the  emotion  called  up 
by  her  now  unalloyed  happiness,  Brendice  turned  to  the  win 
dow,  and  drawing  aside  the  curtain,  looked  out  into  the  night, 
away  up  to  the  neighboring  hills,  where  the  bright  moon 
light  was  stealing  through  the  dark  branches  of  the  cluster 
ing  evergreens,  and  falling  upon  a  white  stone,  against 
which,  while  her  knee  was  benty  and  the  name  of  the  gentle 
slumberer  there  was  upon  her  lips,  her  head  had  many  times 
most  reverently  rested. 

She  was  thinking  now  of  the  hour  when  that  voice,  that 
was  then  so  soon  to  be  silenced  by  death,  had  gently,  but 
confidently  murmured  the  words : 

"  Something,  sometime,  will  bind  us  together." 

Luke  came  and  stood  by  her  side,  and  took  her  hand.  He 
knew  to  what  point  her  eyes  had  turned. 

"  If  she  were  only  with  us !"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  she  is,"  Brendice  softly  whispered.  "Who 
knows  ?" 


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